Never Say Goodbye
by Iri168
Summary: Glimmer Duval has never truly been free, so when the opportunity to train under one of District One's most famous victors arises, she leaps at the chance to break free from her constraining father and his plans. But will the Hunger Games be any different?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**

**I apologize for the super long A/N but it won't happen again (I hope). Being that this is the first chapter, however, there remains quite a bit to be said. First, I have to thank all those who have helped and encouraged me in the process of writing this story. There are too many of you to thank, but I'd like to give a special shoutout to Caisha702, for the inspiration provided in so many of her stories and the constant stream of input and insight she has given me. You rock!**

**So, here it begins! Just for starters, I hope to update frequently, but I'm notoriously picky with my work so I won't post if I don't think something is 100% where I want it to be. As many of you probably know, I've been working on this story for quite some time now. I'd originally expected it to be much shorter, but as I wrote more and more, I just kept unearthing new aspects of Glimmer's story that I felt really ought to be told. I've had people tell me that I spend much of my time playing devil's advocate, and I have to admit it's true. I have a thing for those characters that no one ever thinks twice about because they're so despicable or so forgettable that they simply fall from your mind. So that's my goal, here: to take a character I've been fascinated with for a long time, Glimmer, and bring her out of the two dimensional shadows into the light of fascination. I hope you all enjoy taking this journey with her!**

**Oh, and please read on ½ setting **** thanks!**

_**-Iri**_

The first thing that registers is light. Sunlight, bright in my eyes. It is warm on my bare shoulders. I squint up at the sky, a beautiful shade of heavenly blue.

Next, there is sound. The noise of the crowd fills my ears, roaring. Their screams, their cries of joy and adulation. The sounds of praise fill me to the brim. I am on top of the world. Floating, yet tethered to the earth by the hand that holds my wrist high in the air.

And then, the voice cuts through the air, ringing out my victory: "Ladies and gentlemen of District One, I give you… your tributes for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games!" And with those words, I am complete. Everything I have worked for, every second of the last four years, this is where it all comes together.

My eyes flash out across the roaring crowd of the people I have come to know over the last seventeen years of my life, searching, searching, until they find her. My mentor, who stares up at me with an impassive face. Her eyes, however, tell another story. They shine a brilliant blue, with pride, I think. She, of everyone in the entire nation of Panem, knows exactly how I feel right now. As if every bone in my body is screaming out with my triumph. I am flying.

The emotion of the moment diminishes only slightly as, to the cheers of every citizen of District One, a Peacekeeper leads me and my counterpart, a boy by the name of Marvel Theodelyte, off the stage and into the grand marble Justice Building. A path forms in the crowd as we march through to the famed building, a place I have dreamed of seeing for years.

I am not disappointed as the ornately carved wooden doors close behind us without a sound. The richly carpeted hall, paneled with more engraved wood and topped by crystal chandeliers, is breathtaking. Even my father, one of the wealthiest men in the district, has never been inside the Justice Building. The brilliant bloodred carpeting is soft beneath my sandaled feet as the first Peacekeeper, a somber-looking woman with curiously-colored amber eyes, opens an intricately-carved wooden door and motions for me to enter. With a toss of my curly white-gold hair, I slip through the proffered door. The uniformed woman watches me carefully as I seat myself on a cream colored leather couch. I want to laugh derisively- does she really think I'm going to try anything now, when I'm practically in the lap of the Capitol? -but I hold my tongue. I wouldn't put it past this woman, with her foreign accent and Capitol-made uniform, to make my life more difficult later on. I may be a tribute now, but I remain relatively powerless in the grand scheme of things. Besides, I can't tip my hand now, letting them see me for who I truly am. I have to act detached, as if all others are beneath me. Use what gifts I have to get ahead, including the well-formed body with which I have been graced. That's the plan. A beautiful girl, nothing more than a pretty face with mere average intelligence, which, insulting as it may feel, Cashmere has assured me will help in the long run.

_If they knew how smart you really are,_ she'd said, _you'd be a target straight off. This way, you'll be an ally, not an enemy._ Dignified and aloof, that's how my mentor has instructed me to behave while inside these walls, and I intend to follow her directions to the letter.

With a final mistrustful nod, the white-uniformed Peacekeeper shuts the door with a gentle thud, leaving me to my thoughts. Silence fills the room, which is almost too opulent even for District One, but not my head. So many thoughts are buzzing around, chief among them, _At last._ At last I am here, a place I have dreamed of for years. I, Glimmer Duval, am District One's female tribute for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. I am sixteen years old, intelligent, at my peak, and ready for battle at last. My body, slender and soft as it may appear, is a machine built of elegance and deadly grace. It is time, at last, _at last_, to show the world just what I am capable of.

I am shaken from my fantastic reverie as the heavy door creaks open to reveal my father and two older brothers, along with my father's latest acquisition, a much-younger-than-he woman by the name of Enamel with all the brains of a five-year-old. All are dressed in their imported Capitol finery and looking, in my father's case, as uptight and rigid as ever. As the four members of my family march over the threshold, the younger of my two brothers gives me a wink and a sarcastic smirk as I roll my eyes dramatically at my father's back.

Rivet knows exactly how I feel regarding the Games, having observed my practices with Cashmere for many years. Father wanted to make sure he was getting his money's worth, I suppose, and sent his younger son to play spy, but Rivet spent most of his time chatting it up with Gloss, my mentor's younger brother. Gloss has a trainee as well, a boy by the name of Azure, but he's only thirteen, and therefore has shorter and fewer practices each day, so Gloss spends his afternoons with Cashmere and I. The two of them are as close as… well, Rivet and I.

Despite being a full two years apart in age, Rivet and I are the best of friends. My brother and I are as thick as thieves, and it has remained so for years. He knows I care nothing for the admiring glances of both teenage boys as well as men much older than I, that I find them revolting, even. He's bloodied many a nose in the past, despite my assurances that I am quite capable of doing so myself. He knows that the Games are my escape, the only way to make the world see that Glimmer Duval is so much more than just a porcelain doll to sit on a shelf and look pretty.

My father clears his throat loudly as he seats himself, uninvited, on a stiff black leather armchair directly across from me. The chair fits his personality to the letter: upright, starched, and unmoving. No one crosses Rod Duval, not even me.

"You are to win and come promptly home," he begins in his usual faintly-nasal voice. "You are not to cavort about with anyone, including all those Capitol boys who may come calling. You are to remain dignified and act at all times like a proper member of the Duval family. You will not fail me. Am I clear?" His cold blue eyes are staring me down, unblinking. I find it a true testament to how little my father knows me that he thinks I would ever actually go looking for such attention. Then again, he's never bothered to make much of an attempt to spend quality time with me, his only daughter. After all, I am only his possession, a purse of pale gold with which to bribe his enemies.

I have to take a deep breath before responding with what is considerably less than my usual biting wit. "Yes, Father, you know I will do nothing to embarrass myself- or you- in the Capitol. I don't think I could live with the horror or the shame!" By the end of the sentence, my voice is faintly sarcastic, hard as I try to remain civil. It does me no favors to argue with my father. I learned long ago to suck it up and try to get out of reach as quickly as possible.

As I half-expected, he detects the hint of disrespect in my voice and his eyes narrow dangerously. "Listen to me, little girl, this is not something to sneer about! If your brother were not too old for the reaping, he would be in your place and you would already be married off and out of my way! Since I've been forced to pay for these ridiculous _lessons_ for the past four years, I expect to get my money's worth out of them. And-" Here his voice goes dark and he leans forward until our faces are barely a foot apart. "If you do anything to shame or otherwise undermine the respect I have spent years building up for this family, do not expect to be welcomed home!"

Lovely. My father, as you can see, cares far more about his personal finances and his precious reputation than he does his own daughter. I lean back lazily in my seat, crossing my long bare legs and inspecting my flawless nails with a sigh. Cashmere's instruction echoes in my ears. _Let them think you are as you appear._ And while my brother, at least, knows I am capable of far more than I seem, I know I'm not the best actress in the world. Might as well get some practice in before I must face the cameras again.

"Yes, father, whatever you say," I reply in a bored tone designed to stir up trouble. I am sick and tired of playing dead in his presence. I hear his incensed hiss before I look up from under my lashes. His face is turned red, about to blow. I know it's inadvisable to poke the mad bull with a stick, so to speak, but I can't resist. I've been under his power for too long, and now that I am free from the overpowering influence, sixteen years of taunts and careless words all seem to release at once as I speak.

"But you would also do well to remember, dear father, that I no longer am a member of this family. From the minute I stepped onto that stage, I became Capitol property, and as such, I am no longer under your authority. So do not presume to order me about again. I am no longer a helpless child for you to bully and mold to your own wishes." By the end of my statement, my voice is laced with all the venom I have built up over the years, my eyebrows drawn downward in a dangerous V, and my father is breathing so heavily you would think he just ran a marathon. His fist twitches in his lap and I know it is only his fear of marring my perfect face that keeps him from slapping me across the cheek right now.

My father rises abruptly to his feet, Enamel hopping up like a jack-in-the-box at the same time, and with one more disdainful glare, he straightens his perfectly starched collar and tie. "If this is how you treat your father, do not expect me to mourn when you lie in your own blood in that arena." He spits the words out, nearly frothing at the mouth, and with a sharp gesture towards my brothers, who sit spellbound on the nearest couch, he turns to go.

Red fills my vision as I hear, for the final time, the damning words. I have always known my father cares nothing for me, even reveled in the fact, but to throw it back in my face now… It is too much at last.

With one swift motion, I snatch a crystal-fluted glass from a nearby tray, smash the globe against a carved wooden table, and with a deadly-quick motion, reach around from behind to press the jagged edge of the stem to Rod Duval's windpipe. Despite the simple truth that I am several inches shorter, my arm fits perfectly around his neck to prick the skin. Enamel squeals shrilly and claps a well-manicured hand over her mouth. We never did get along, but I suspect that relationship will not have improved any now. My father's surprised gulp is audible in the shocked silence of the room.

"No," I hiss, all traces of composure gone. Rage fills my mind, and I cannot think otherwise. "Do not expect me to mourn _you_, my father, when you lie alone at your funeral. Because if it is the last thing I do, I will make sure you are remembered as the heartless, greedy bastard that I know you to be. I will _never_ belong to you again, and this is the last time I ever call you _father_."

I throw the broken shard of glass to the ground, and shove the dark-suited man in front of me away. He stumbles towards the door, turning to look at me with a look of total disbelief on his usually-stern face before stumbling from the room with Enamel practically glued to his side. My eldest brother Steel quickly rises and rushes after them with a startled glance in my direction. No goodbye from him, but then, I didn't expect one. We were never close as children, and he is far too much a slave to my father for me to even bother trying to make a connection now.

As I turn back to take my seat once more, Rivet rises to meet me in the center of the room, rubbing a hand through shining white-blond hair. We could be twins, my brother and I. Light hair, green eyes inherited from our dead mother, three wives ago. Being married to my father is a high-stress position, I suspect. The last two both suffered panic attacks and ended up in a Capitol sanitarium. I suspect they're happier now, where they can sip their tea and gossip in peace. Enamel's actually holding up well so far, but it's only been a few months, so I won't hold my breath for a miracle.

"A touching farewell," Rivet snorts sarcastically, and we both laugh out loud, his wide eyes dancing as he meets my closed fist with one of his own in a gesture we perfected long ago in our childhood. Then his face sobers. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him from coming," he says, looking me dead in the eye. For the first time, I realize just how grateful I am to have my brother. He understands that I don't want any goodbyes, that I would find them an insult. I didn't have to ask him to stay away, but I know he planned not to even come to visit this tiny room before my departure. My brother knows that, should I fall in the arena, against all odds, this is not how I want him to remember me. My father may have ruined his plans, but I know Rivet has always meant the best.

In response, I lean forward to place my closed fist over his heart. "For you," I whisper. "Always for you." He places a hand over mine, giving it a squeeze and dropping his cheek to the crown of my head.

"And Glimmer," he says softly, "never say goodbye."

And then he is gone, the trace of his solemn kiss lingering in my hair as my brother disappears out the door. _Never say goodbye_. A shiver runs down my spine. Those three words, hushed and meant only for me, I've heard them before. An undercurrent running below the surface of my home district, spoken in quiet tones to those who leave and, more often than not, never return. The trained warriors of District One are as diverse as the people of Panem, but we are all united by those three simple words. _Never say goodbye_. To say goodbye is to mourn, to be weak. And so we do not say goodbye. If it is my fate to fall in the arena, so be it, because I'd rather die there than suffer the rest of my life as a veritable slave to my father. And then, at least, I will die with my pride.

I sit back down and smooth the pale fabric of my dress over my thighs, trying to regain my composure as the sallow-faced Peacekeeper returns to collect me. "Time to go," she mutters sullenly, motioning for me to follow her. I don't, not at first. Instead, I rise and cross to the gilded mirror hanging on the far wall, where I stare into my own reflection. Long-lashed green eyes stare back at me. I have never liked my eyes before, disliking their odd glass-like tint, but now, knowing I may never see my brother again, they are the closest thing I have to a reminder of my true family, a piece of happiness I will hold fast to when I am gone.

_It's time_. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. I reach up to tuck a stray hair behind my ear and wet my lips with a few drops from the jug of water on the tray. _Perfect. _I look just as flawless as ever. Placing a satisfied smile upon my lips, I turn back to the door and make my way from the room. The Capitol awaits.

**A/N**

**So, what do you think? Please, take the time to review so I know how I'm doing. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

**Chapter two! Thank you to all who reviewed last chapter; as any writer knows, reviews definitely help to force me into writing even when I want nothing more than to curl up and just nap instead. So if you want more Glimmer, keep reviewing!**

**Oh, and please read on ½ setting **** thanks!**

_**-Iri**_

The Peacekeeper leads me down yet another lavishly decorated hallway and I realize a bit belatedly that this is the way to the train station, located just behind the Justice Building. Like just about everyone else in District One, I've never actually been on a train. They're usually freight trains, arriving and departing about once a week for the Capitol, carrying the bounty of luxurious frivolities my district produces. But twice a year, during the Games and the Victory Tour, a sleek white Capitol passenger train arrives in the station. I watch them every year, leaving the walls of my district in a blur. But this is the first time I'll ever actually be on one.

The thought fills me with both excitement and a terrible nostalgia for the days when my life was much simpler. Just Rivet and I, running wild through the carefully-tended gardens of my father's palatial home, without a care in the world. But I shake the thoughts away. There is no use in reminiscing about those days. They are long gone now. And while I miss the carefree happiness the past took with it, I know that the only thing I can do to regain even a small fraction of it is to win these Games, and I cannot do it if I am constantly worrying about places and events long past. I scold myself internally.

Just before my Peacekeeper companion pushes open the wide door to the outside world, I remember my instructions from Cashmere. Biting my lips to make them more colorful, I affix a flirtatious smile on my mouth and adjust my stride, swaying my hips alluringly. And it's just in time. The Peacekeeper pushes open the door and immediately a chorus of voices cries out to me, accompanied by the flashes of high-powered cameras. Capitol photographers. I know I'm being broadcast live to the entire nation right now, and my mentor, who is much more like an elder sister at this point than a teacher, has stressed countless times the importance of remaining in character. We never had to think about finding an angle for me, so I owe it to her to keep myself firmly in check.

"Glimmer! Can you tell us why you volunteered?"

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Or a girlfriend!"

"Glimmer! What's your strategy in the arena?"

And on and on.

Some of the comments are so ridiculous I can barely keep from laughing aloud. Biting my lip innocently, I bat my eyelashes at one of the cameramen and dart out the tip of my tongue to wet my lips before tossing back my hair in a shower of white-gold waves. The crowd goes wild and I grin before the scowling Peacekeeper ushers me onto the train.

As my eyes struggle to adjust from sunlight to the dim lighting of the train corridor, I see my district escort, Devon, sitting on a small chair directly across from the automatic door. He's a regular fixture in our district, although he only started escorting our tributes eight or so years ago. He's a smaller statured man with brilliantly golden, slanted eyes and a somewhat flamboyant style of smoky-eyed makeup. I glance at him, wondering what I'm expected to do now.

"The boy, Marvel, is already onboard," he gestures down the hall with a jerk of his thumb. "And your mentor's waiting for you in your room. Third door on the left." His lips curl up into a smile and I am momentarily spellbound by the flash of his teeth, which are even whiter than my own, the incisors ending in small but obvious points. Obviously, Devon is no stranger to the Capitol's famous methods of bodily alteration. I can easily say that such techniques will not be my main focus when I win the Games. I already get enough stares; attracting more just might send me over the edge.

I roll my eyes and head down the corridor to meet with my mentor, who is indeed waiting in my room when I manage to figure out the deceptively complex keypad next to the door. It hisses open and I step through to see her sitting gracefully on the bed. It is my intention to immediately begin talking strategy, but I have to take a moment to gape at the room itself, slightly taken aback. I'm used to luxury at home, but this is something else. Everything is white and gold, the height of Capitol fashion, I suppose. The ivory carpeting is so thick and soft I immediately kick off my sandals and revel in the sensation of sinking into a cloud.

Cashmere snorts in a rather unladylike manner at my blissful expression, and my eyes snap back open as I quickly cross to join her on the huge fluffy bed. She studies my face in her usual manner as I arrange my plain white dress across my lap. I've always said that Cashmere can see into my mind just by looking at me, and I've yet to be proven wrong. She always knows just what I'm thinking, although such introspection may just be a result of spending so many hours together in past years.

"Lay it on me," I sigh, finally relaxing back into the fluffy down pillows. She takes a breath before responding.

"We've made it this far, but you absolutely cannot let your guard down yet. Remember, there are always people watching, always cameras, always someone to be influenced and charmed." Her face is serious as she looks at me. "You will win this, Glimmer, if you can just keep your head in it. I know you can." Rare praise from my mentor. She blows out a long, slow gust of air, as if releasing all the stress of the morning from her system.

"We're going to brunch in a few minutes, and Marvel and Onyx will be there. I know we're supposed to be on the same team, and you two will have to stick together in the arena, but I don't want to give him anything to use against you. You stay in character and act just the way I've told you. Don't let on anything about your strategy."

I nod. This is obvious; Marvel has been trained separately, as is the custom in my district, and district loyalty only goes so far in the arena. He will kill me if he has to, and I must be prepared to do the same. We were never closely acquainted while at school, being that he is nearly eighteen years old and a full two classes ahead of me, so I don't expect him to know just how intelligent I really am. After all, he's just a teenage guy. I can count on one hand the number of the male sex who have ever managed to make it past the pretty exterior to see the girl inside- my brother, Cashmere's own brother Gloss,- and I'm willing to bet the whole of District One that Marvel Theodelyte will not be joining the list.

Cashmere continues. "After brunch, we'll all watch a replay of the reapings. I want you to keep a close eye on the competition. We can't afford to underestimate anyone." With one graceful motion, she slips off the bed and turns to me.

"Come on, you'll need to change for breakfast." She helps me select and dress in a floaty green silk dress that drapes about my curves like a cool embrace. Of course, it's also far too low cut for my liking, revealing half my breasts and making me self-conscious, but I suck it up and allow Cashmere to slip it over my head and zip me in. I'll need it to stay in character today. Besides, it makes my eyes shine even greener than usual, and I'm reminded of my brother's last embrace.

My feet slide into a pair of blessedly comfortable sandals. While Cashmere gently brushes my hair to the side, tying it with a thin green ribbon to drift effortlessly across my neck and shoulder, I hear a knock at the door. It whooshes open to reveal Devon, who leans against the wall to watch the proceedings with some interest.

"I'm supposed to tell you that brunch is ready," he says lightly. "And then I'm supposed to escort Glimmer to the dining room. Cashmere… I think you're supposed to escort yourself." He smiles and holds out a hand for me. Cashmere steps back so I can stand up from the dressing table. I ignore Devon's proffered hand with a twitch of my lip, flipping back my hair as I squeeze past him and begin to walk down the hall. Behind me, I can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

The dining room is done in paneled honey-colored wood, and the gleaming rectangular table is covered with golden dishes. Steam rises from many of them and I inhale. Amazing.

Marvel is already seated at one end with his mentor, Onyx, a dark-haired beast of a man who won the Games about seven years ago. Marvel is the first tribute he's taken on since his own victory, and both of them look up suspiciously when I seat myself at the center of the table. White clad servants, Avoxes, rush to serve me with a variety of dishes. While I am not nearly as underfed and emaciated as I know the children from lesser districts will be, it is always handy to have some meat on your bones in the arena, so I help myself to large portions of what looks most delicious.

Cashmere seats herself beside me, Devon sitting across the table, and I stifle my laughter as Marvel and Onyx realize everyone else is sitting together. Reluctantly, they scoot down to join us. Marvel shoots me a glare and I look back at him wide-eyed, the picture of innocence, before smiling and licking my lips slowly, still staring him dead in the eyes. He gulps quite noticeably before hurriedly sitting down.

The meal is fairly quiet, being that neither the tributes nor the mentors want to let anything slip about their plans for the arena and the trying days ahead, but Devon does his best to make small talk, something he isn't exactly known for. He's more of the snarky, dark-witted type, so it's obvious Cashmere has asked him to distract the others. I'm perfectly fine not talking to the opposition right now- I have no desire to deal with easily smitten and easily swayed imbeciles like Marvel- and I eat my brunch in contented silence. The chicken, in a kind of buttery orange sauce, is delicious over some sort of white grain, served with fresh bread and golden fried eggs, a true delicacy. I stuff myself.

After a mostly silent and far too-long meal during which I cast many a flirtatious glance in my partner's general direction, Cashmere and I retreat to my room once again, to wait out the rest of the reapings in peace and quiet. The replays won't be on until later this afternoon, as they are staggered throughout the day, and judging by the time visible on the small clock near the bed, they should be on District Eight or so by now. I shiver in the cool-conditioned air of my compartments, rubbing my hands nervously along my bare upper arms. In just a few short hours, I will see my competition for the first time. The idea fills me with apprehension at the very least, knowing that anywhere among the field of twenty-three other boys and girls could be one who is just that little bit faster, just a bit stronger than me.

Cashmere catches me gnawing my lip unconsciously and sighs, reaching forward to smooth back a wayward strand of hair that has escaped from my ponytail. "Relax, Glimmer," she soothes, rubbing my back with her warm hand. "You've trained for this for years. I've never seen someone work as hard as you do every day. Besides," she says with a teasing smile, "I didn't spend all this time training you so you could cop out now. Just think of all the rich Capitol boys who will never get to enjoy the wondrous sight that is Glimmer Duval!" She laughs aloud, her real laugh, a deep and throaty sound. I try to maintain a straight face but can't, and resort to whacking her across the head with a handy pillow.

"Shut up! You know I don't care about the leeches of the Capitol. I've got plenty of those at home, thanks very much." But I'm grinning at her, and I realize that, true just as she intended, Cashmere has succeeded in making me feel better. Just as she always does.

True to form, Cashmere spends the next few hours keeping me distracted with meaningless topics and bits of gossip, and I forget all about the impending challenges I will soon face. Instead, I end up drifting into a sleepy stupor, enjoying the feel of the warm sunshine streaming through the thick glass window onto my bare shoulders. I lay on my stomach reading a completely nonsensical Capitol magazine, full of ridiculous fashion advice and scandalous stories about the government elite while Cashmere braids my hair and hums tonelessly. It's as close to happy as I've been in months. With the stress of the Games weighing on my shoulders, I've taken very little time to enjoy myself in so long. It's nice to just relax.

Of course, our peace must soon be interrupted, this time in the form of Devon, who invites himself in and plops down in a velvet-lined chair with an icy glass of something that smells both citrusy and vaguely alcoholic.

"What is this, a slumber party?" he teases us. I raise my head to fix him with a scathing look, an expression I've had many an occasion to practice over the years.

"What are you doing in here, Devon?" Cashmere asks him, her tone exasperated but still slightly amused.

"Well, I tried dropping in on the other two, but when they started to threaten me with bodily harm if I didn't leave, I decided my company was better appreciated by the female aspect of District One," my escort smirks, his surprisingly natural chocolate brown eyes dancing with laughter and his nose wrinkled in pretend offense.

"Oh please," Cashmere snorts, "we both know you're only here for the view."

"Cashmere, you wound me. I would think such lovely ladies such as yourselves would enjoy the company of a sophisticated and refined man such as myself."

"Ha!" my mentor laughs aloud. "That's a good one. You, refined? In comparison to Onyx, maybe, but anywhere else, you've got about the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. What's the message, delivery boy?"

Devon sighs in pretend disgust at her disparaging words but winks at me from across the carpeted expanse of my room. "Very well then, I'm supposed to tell you that afternoon tea is being served in the television room, and the replays are due to start in-" he twists his wrist to check an expensive-looking watch-"ten minutes. So if it's not too much trouble, you may want to consider attending. Unless Blondie here is going rogue. That might be an interesting headline for the newspapers." He's grinning as I toss a heavily tasseled pillow his way, but he ducks in time to miss the projectile entirely.

"We'll be there in a minute," Cashmere replies, standing up and placing her hand on her hip gracefully. She gestures to the door. "I'd like a few last words with my tribute." Devon raises an eyebrow at her statement, but nods and quickly departs, allowing the door to hiss shut behind him.

I turn to look at my mentor, expecting a few more words of advice, but she shakes her head. "I just want you to remember, you can win this. Some of the kids on that screen might look tough, but they'll be nothing to you in the arena, Glimmer. I know it." Her royal blue eyes pierce mine with an intensity rarely shown. I take a deep breath and nod my head, releasing the air in a slow gust.

"Okay. I'm ready." Cashmere nods approvingly.

"Then let's go meet the competition."

Less than a minute later, I find myself seated in the viewing room, a small compartment filled with a few velvet-lined armchairs and a wall-sized television screen. Devon flips on the power and seats himself next to Cashmere on my right. To my disgust, Marvel claims the seat to my left, and I have to resist the urge to literally kick him out and away from me. But then the huge screen flickers to life, accompanied by the voices of the Capitol commentators, and I am distracted.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Hunger Games Network! As I'm sure you all know, this is bound to be yet another exciting year!" A smiling man with skin dyed a nauseating shade of chartreuse chirps happily onscreen. He introduces himself as Hopi Stork, and I wonder what on earth possesses Capitol mothers to torture their children so. His companion, a woman with hair longer than she is tall and brilliant pink eyes, claps excitedly, bouncing in her seat, and I want to vomit.

"That's right, Hopi! Up next, we have the replay of the district reapings, and we all know what that means!" The woman- who is introduced as Chloe Quarrie, another awful name- practically spasms with delight at the prospect of sending twenty-three kids to their deaths.

"That means you can start placing your bets in just a few minutes. Remember, these tributes depend on your sponsorship money! So let's show everyone just how much we have to give!"

Lovely. The Capitol's morals: kill children, look good doing it, and make sure everyone knows how much money you've spent in the course of the endeavor.

With a few last winning comments, the two foolish reporters turn the airtime over to the Capitol tech crew, and the screen goes black before the large golden words, "District One," appear. It's a video replay, from several different camera angles, of the reaping just a few short hours ago. The mayor of District One, recognizable by his strangely strained cheeks and bloated belly, makes his dull speech, which you can tell no one is listening to, and Devon takes the stage to read the names. Per usual, the selected girl, a tiny thirteen-year-old who could be my twin, albeit much younger, barely makes it from her section before she is stopped in her tracks.

I see myself, tall, beautiful, and imperious, striding forward to announce my intention to volunteer. It's a strange sensation, watching yourself on television. Almost an out-of-body experience. The girl on the screen is confident, stepping up onto the stage with grace and an almost visible aura of command that I can say I rarely feel inside. I suppose my acting skills are better than I had thought. I watch as television me shakes Devon's hand and turns to face the audience with a beatific smile on her face.

Marvel's entrance into view onscreen is much the same, but I notice he has not quite the allure I seem to draw. Beside me in the television room, he stiffens in his chair as the camera returns again and again to rest on my face. I fight back a gleeful smile. _The Capitol has already picked their favorite_, I want to taunt him, _and it isn't you. Better get used to the cold, Marvel._

Before long, television-Glimmer and -Marvel are led offstage and the screen goes dark once more. We sit through the rest of the reapings, offering brief commentary now and then. A few tributes stand out: the pair from Two is particularly interesting. The huge man who volunteers is standard; menacing and no doubt a fearsome killer. But for the first time since I can remember, the girl who is chosen is the one who takes the stage. She's not particularly terrifying like a Two tribute usually is; in sharp contrast to her huge partner, the girl, Clove, barely graces five foot and I'm willing to bet she weighs maybe ninety pounds soaking wet and fully clothed. But there's something about the sharp glare- almost possessed, in fact- set firmly on her sallow face that warns me she is not to be trifled with.

"We'll have to keep an eye on the both of them," I say to no one in particular, and sounds of agreement echo from everyone in the room. However, they are not so agreeable when I lean forward to more closely examine the practically emaciated-looking fourteen-year-old girl from Five, who by all rights should be terrified, but seems totally calm as she takes the stage. It's disconcerting, to say the least.

"There's something going on there," I say almost to myself.

Marvel snorts out loud. "Like what? She's from Five. What's she going to do, jump out and yell 'Boo!'?" He laughs out loud, staring at me as if daring me to challenge him.

Much as I long to knock my hapless partner unconscious at this point, I sigh as I remember my promise to Cashmere. I have to follow the script.

I reply in bubbly, flirtatious tones. "I don't expect you to notice absolutely everything, Marvel, but she's obviously not just another scared little girl." My voice is sugar sweet and lilting, a bright and winning smile on my lips, and I watch his pupils almost dilate as he gazes, dumbfounded, at me. This is almost too easy.

"I understand you may be distracted by her small stature, but if you'd been watching her face, you'd have seen that she is totally unafraid. Obviously she knows something we don't." The contrast between my faintly jabbing words and my innocent, flirtatious tone appears to befuddle my partner even further, because he merely looks at me with confused eyes and takes several seconds to reply. He thinks I'm teasing… or flirting… or both, I suppose.

"Well, I guess you can do what you want, but I don't think she's much of a threat," Marvel says slowly, scrutinizing me up and down like a prized horse. Despite feeling an intense desire to slap him silly for practically undressing me with his eyes, I just sigh lightly and shake my head as if mildly entertained at his words before returning my attention to the screen.

From the corner of my eye, I see Cashmere give me an almost imperceptible nod, and I know what she's trying to say. With a few choice words, I have easily established my authority over Marvel, while remaining an object of his curiosity and attention. The poor boy doesn't have a chance.

The rest of the tributes are typical; starving children trying to appear strong, or more often than not, dissolving into tears in full view of everyone in the nation. _This is why we train in District One,_ I think to myself. _To avoid sending innocent kids to their deaths._ The boy from Eleven is fairly large and looks like he could put up a good fight, but he's not trained and is therefore probably no match for either Marvel or the boy from Two.

The reaping in Twelve, at least, has a bit more excitement. They manage to scrape together a few pretty strong tributes for once, and the girl actually volunteers. Now, she does it to take the place of her sister, but still. For an untrained girl from the pitiful slum that is District Twelve, that takes guts.

Or at least, I assume she's untrained until I watch her leave the stage. She's not crying, begging, or even glaring menacingly at everyone like so many choose to do in a pathetic attempt to intimidate their fellow tributes. Her pale grey eyes are carefully trained on a point somewhere in the distance, and even through a TV screen, I can see the way she takes everything in, adjusting her body to her surroundings and moving with an unconscious grace that strikes me as highly unusual. This girl knows what she's doing.

I voice my thoughts to the rest of the team, and they agree. The girl from Twelve must have some training, which is astonishing in itself, considering their only living victor is a drunken mess. I can't even see how he manages to drag himself out of bed in the morning- he fell off of the stage during their reaping- let alone remain coherent and sober enough to train a tribute. But she's one to keep an eye on, that's for sure.

As the program wraps up and the bubbly reporter duo returns, Devon reaches up to switch off the television and Cashmere gets to her feet.

"I think we've got some good chances this year," she says. "We'll talk about strategy tomorrow, after the Opening Ceremonies. I'm assuming we'll each mentor our own tributes"-these words are directed towards Onyx- "so no changes there. Get some rest. We'll be in the Capitol by tonight." With a nod of acknowledgment, Marvel rises to his feet and, with his silent mentor close by his side, departs for his room.

Devon gives me a playful smile as I rise to my feet, leaning against the wall and waiting for Cashmere to finish up with me. I look to her for any other advice, but she shakes her head.

"Get some rest, Glimmer," she says softly. "I'll see you in a few hours. Call me if you need anything." Okay then, I'm not going to argue, especially not with Devon standing right there. I suppose I should be offended, considering I'm putting my life on the line here, but I know better. Cashmere is not one to let things slip through the cracks, and if having a few hours of time away allows her to relax from her usual uptight and icy attitude, so much the better. My mentor has never let me down yet, and I trust her with my life.

A quick walk later and I am in my room, kicking off the sandals and leaving them to lie atop the growing heap of clothing on my floor. I am many things, but neat is not one of them. Thank heavens my father ranked high enough in society to have a cleaning staff back home, or my room would have been even more of a mess than it already was. Rivet used to joke that I might get lost among all the clutter, were I not careful.

The bed sheets are silky smooth and draw me in invitingly, and I lean back against the dozen or so pillows, trying not to think about the next few hours. Which is difficult when you consider one fact: I'll be in the Capitol by dinnertime tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**

**On to Chapter 3! Thanks to all my reviewers, especially Caisha, cause she always has great advice **** Shameless rec here- if you like my story, you should check out her stuff. She's currently working on this awesome story called **_**The Illusion of Freedom**_**, which involves Cashmere and some other really insanely cool stuff. If you like, check out the prequel to it, **_**Beauty of Freedom**_**, because she's that dang good. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy and remember to review.**

**Oh, and please read on ½ setting **** thanks!**

_**-Iri**_

An hour later, I'm still shifting restlessly in my room. I can't get my mind to shut up. Thoughts are racing through my head faster than I can banish them away. I'm not doubting myself. Not at all. I know I have what it takes to win, and Cashmere has told me on several occasions that she has the utmost confidence in me. I just can't seem to turn off the mental chatter.

Over and over, my thoughts turn back to my altercation with my father back in the Justice Building. As much as I wish it wasn't so, his words stung, just a bit. It's clear to me that I will never mean anything to him. I am the youngest of three children, the disposable one. My father never thought I would amount to much; my beauty has forever been my only selling point in his eyes. An arranged marriage and perhaps a job as a supply clerk in the District storerooms, that's what he envisioned for me. My mother has been dead for years, and she was never much of an authority figure to begin with.

So, years ago, when the rumors began to float through school that former Hunger Games victor Cashmere Malone was looking for a new tribute to train, I knew what I had to do.

_That first day… I remember the musty smell of the primary school gymnasium, the gleam of the polished wooden floors as dozens of other glory seekers filed into the vast room, each hoping against hope for a chance to prove ourselves. An uncomfortable, anxious silence filled the room. Every head turned to face the makeshift wooden platform, upon which stood one of the most legendary figures District One has ever known._

_Cashmere Malone, victor of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games._

_Famous for both her Hunger Games victory and her incredible beauty, Cashmere was a figure of both awe and terror in my district. Along with her brother, Gloss, who won the Sixty-Fourth Games, she was one of our most famous victors to date, besides Facet Armstrong, who won the very first Games all those years ago. Not to mention that she was rarely, if ever, seen in public; she generally tended to stay hidden in the recesses of the Victor's Village, which automatically meant there had to be some mysterious explanation for her very obvious scorning of society. The news that she was taking on a new student was… incredible, unanticipated. She'd had one, years ago, right after her own Games, but she hadn't expressed interest in a long time, so now that she'd finally come to her senses, everyone wanted to be the lucky student._

_Which was why, in the middle of the school day, our principal herded every willing student between the ages of eight and fourteen into the gymnasium to perform for the stony-eyed woman who now stepped down off the platform to walk down the rows of excited kids clad in the bloodred school uniforms. I stood near the end of the front row, head held high. I remember being so determined, so sure I would be the one she picked. For the next two hours, I flipped and leaped and wrestled and ran and climbed with the best of District One's children, every so often glancing over my shoulder to make sure she was watching me. More often than not, she was._

_By the end of the day, every kid in that gym was ready to drop, including me, but I couldn't let myself or my brother down. I struggled to remain standing perfectly poised, wanting more than anything to lean over and take a breather. But Cashmere was watching. And she was supposed to pick now. __**Please**__ be me, I remember thinking. __**Please.**_

"_Thank you all for coming," she said in a surprisingly soft voice, though not without an edge of steel. "I've watched all of you very carefully, and I've made my decision." A hundred kids drew breath all at once. Every fiber of my being quivered with anticipation. __**Please.**_

"_And my decision is… not to choose. I choose no one." Cashmere's words echoed through the gymnasium, carrying with them an air of disbelief and anger. How could she not choose? _Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong_? This couldn't be happening. Angry and astonished whispers roiled through the room as the famous victor spoke._

"_Thank you all for your time." She stepped from the platform and without speaking another word, left the gymnasium._

_The principal scurried back to the platform and tried in vain to shush everyone. "Please, be quiet! All of you, it's time to go home. Obviously, you weren't good enough, so don't reproach Miss Malone for her decision. The fault lies with all of you." But I couldn't believe that. I couldn't. If I did, it meant consigning myself to a life controlled by my father, a marriage to a man I'd never even met, a dull and monotonous existence in which I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that I could never be happy. No, I couldn't accept this._

_As the lines of disappointed volunteers filed from the room, I numbly fell into place behind a few others from my grade, barely noticing anything about my surroundings. The crisp fall air was like a slap to the face when I finally made it outside, but it was nothing next to the sting of losing any chance I'd had left, any hope I'd harbored of someday breaking free. Falling out of line, I collapsed into a swing on the rickety old playground, unable to face going home now. I hadn't told my father I was trying out, of course, for that would just be stupid, considering he'd most likely fly into a rage and lock me in my room for a week, but Rivet knew, and I couldn't bear to tell him I'd failed. _

_I don't know how long I sat there for, wondering how I'd failed, when a flash of movement caught my eye. I turned to see a shock of white-blond hair, so like my own, leaving through the back door of the girls' locker room._

_Something came over me then, like a veil. Suddenly, all I could see was my rapidly shrinking future walking away. "Wait!" I called, running to catch up. Cashmere turned but didn't stop walking. "Please!" I cried, coming to a halt at her side. "You've got to listen to me."_

_She stopped to look at me, scrutinizing me with a critical eye. "What's your name?"_

"_Glimmer Duval," I said. "I'm twelve years old. And I need you to train me." I felt like an insect under her steely blue gaze. Small and like an ant in the shadow of a giant._

"_You did well today, but I can't help you," she said finally. "Find someone else." But she didn't leave. I took this as encouragement._

"_No, it has to be you," I said. "All I've ever wanted is to be my own person. You know what it's like. My father won't let me be anything but a possession, and I can't live like this. I won't let myself be a china doll on a shelf somewhere, made to look pretty and gather dust. I'll work harder than anyone, just please give me a chance!" My desperation came out in my voice and I wanted to scream. I sounded so weak. Then again, if acting like a helpless child would get me what I wanted so badly when everything else had failed, well, dignity was the last thing that should have been on my mind._

_Cashmere's eyes were fixed on my face, and yet, she was far away. I watched as she blinked slowly several times, remembering something. Her own childhood, perhaps. But then she focused her piercing gaze on me, and I wanted to hide. "What makes you so different than anyone else I saw in that gymnasium this afternoon?" She challenged. "Why should it be you?"_

"_Because I will do anything it takes to win," I replied simply, trembling inside but not yet willing to give up on a future I so longed for._

"_I haven't taken a tribute in years," Cashmere replied. "I don't want another one, not after-" she cut off suddenly, and I knew what this was about._

_She'd had a trainee, a few years ago. A girl, Gemma Watson. She was fifteen, and she almost made it, until a boy from District Two cut her open. They say Cashmere never recovered, and it's not hard to imagine why. Being that the Games are required entertainment, I watched when he sliced her up like a piece of meat. No one needed or wanted to see that. I didn't even know the girl and I had to turn away. So I can see why it affected Cashmere so badly, having worked with the girl every day for half her life._

"_I can do this," I said confidently. Too confidently, stupidly, even. "I won't let you down." I spoke brashly, my usual prideful self, and within seconds I found myself pinned to the wall behind me, a knife appearing from nowhere, suddenly pressed to my throat. Cashmere's eyes were furious, just inches from my face._

"_Never," she hissed. "She never let me down. Not once." I struggled to keep my fear from showing. She could have cut my throat right there, and it's doubtful anyone would have dared to speak against her. Victors have immunity, for all intents and purposes, and it wouldn't be the first time one went mad and killed someone outside the arena. But I had to believe she wouldn't. She wouldn't do that to me. I hoped._

"_You can kill me if you like," I replied as confidently as possible, "but before you do, know that I will never let you down either." The knife pressed harder and I could barely breathe. _This is it. She's going to kill me, _I thought. Black spots danced across my vision as I gasped for air, my feet scrabbling uselessly on the ground. For the first time, I was truly worried for my life. "Please!"_

_And then the pressure released and I fell to the ground, trying to get oxygen to my starving lungs. A shadow loomed over me, blocking the bleak autumn sun._

"_You will meet me in the Victor's Village square tomorrow at four, right after school." She leaned over me, eyes glittering, though from anger or tears, I knew not. "A victor never begs. Remember that." And the faint footsteps faded into the distance as I remained crumpled on the ground. My head pounded as fast as my heart and my throat hurt like nothing I'd felt before. As I pushed my body, still shaking from lack of oxygen, upright, I rubbed my neck tenderly. I was going to have a bruise, most likely, and it would be sore for a few days. But considering the alternative, I'd take it._

_It took a few moments to sink in, but when it did, I was smiling, however faintly. It might have taken a bruised windpipe and a near-death experience, but I got what I wanted. I was going to enter the Hunger Games with Cashmere Malone as my mentor._

The next day, Cashmere met with my father and announced her intention to train me for the Games. Heaven knows he couldn't have refused. Victors have power, and even though he would never have listened to her if she was a normal twenty-something woman, he had to. I remember trying to hide my grin as he viciously spat out his agreement. My liberation had begun. Five years later, I stood on another, similar wooden platform, in front of hundreds of people screaming my name. And now here I am, on a train en route to the Capitol.

I lean my head back into the ridiculously soft mattress, staring at the ceiling. Where would I be now, if I had never met my mentor in the schoolyard that day? I know where I'd be: married off to some lecherous businessman or his eldest son, suffering in the worst way imaginable. But I shake the thought away, disgusted. It will do me no good to dwell on what ifs. I will never win the Games that way. And bolstered by visions of the victory ceremony and my father's expression when I return home, the crown securely on my head, I quickly relax and return to reading the useless gossip newspaper abandoned earlier at the foot of the bed.

The Capitol can wait.

A few slow hours later, I'm startled by a loud knocking on the door. It's Devon, come to fetch me for an early dinner. I feel a flutter of excitement in my stomach when he tells me the Capitol is only a mere half hour away. I quickly retie my hair and make my way down to the dining room. Cashmere motions for me to sit next to her, and an Avox pulls out my chair. Devon quickly offers me a basket of bread as Marvel and Onyx enter the room.

"Good evening," I say pleasantly, ever playing the part of congenial pretty-girl. I offer Marvel a bunch of fresh grapes, a luxury we rarely get back home. "These are absolutely divine," I say, popping a particularly ripe and plump one in my mouth and emitting a soft hum of satisfaction as it bursts between my teeth. Marvel shifts beside me and I know he's watching. Perfect. _Let the seduction begin_, I think.

Devon chuckles as he passes behind my chair to shoo the silent Avoxes away, flicking a strand of my hair over my shoulder. He's teasing me, no doubt remembering our previous conversation in which he reminded my mentor and I of his experience with the "wiles of the District One ladies," and I glare playfully at him before returning my attention to the breakfast spread. The mugs of steaming coffee are my favorite, especially with the sort of vanilla syrup provided on the tray. It's a heavenly combination, and I manage to work several more moans and licked lips into the next few minutes of silent eating.

By the end of the brief dinner meal, Marvel is putty in my hands, although I catch several furious glances from his mentor in the process. _Too bad,_ I gloat silently. _Nothing you can do about it. _I'm willing to bet money on the fact that Onyx will try to warn his tribute against trusting me, and that Marvel, like every other stupid teenaged boy on the planet, will totally ignore his mentor's protests and decide instead to continue bandying about after me like a lovesick puppy dog. I feel a stab of satisfaction as I imagine the sponsorship money pouring into my personal account in the arena. No, Marvel won't last long at all, not if the current state of affairs continues.

Then, the room suddenly goes dark, and everyone looks up. I'm worried for a minute- has the train broken down? -until Onyx sighs and puts down his fork. "We're approaching the Capitol," he says in response to Marvel's questioning grunt through a mouthful of pot roast.

I realize that I have but minutes left before I am to be thrust into Capitol society and its overly-bright spotlight, and I turn to Cashmere, slightly panicked. She gives my hand a hard squeeze, her way of saying to get my head in it. "Remember the plan," she murmurs, so low I know only I will hear it. And she's right. I must remain composed at all times. If I can't manage to do so here, how will I ever win the Games?

I take a deep breath and go to stand next to the wall-sized window as the lights mounted on the tunnel wall flash by in a blur. 250 miles per hour, that's how fast these trains go. We've made the decently lengthy journey in less than a full day.

I'm momentarily blinded as we burst free from the constraining darkness into the sunlight. The rapid deceleration of the train catches me off guard and I have to brace my hand on the wall to avoid falling over and looking like an imbecile. As my eyes adjust, I see that we are on some kind of an elevated track about twenty feet above the ground, where crowds of people cheer and wave and take pictures with expensive-looking cameras. I plaster a winning smile on my cheeks and wave gaily to the ridiculous-looking people, who scream louder at the sight of me.

I'm watching a rainbow stream by my face. Everything is so brightly colored; buildings made of pink and orange stone, roads paved with green. It's a curious sensation, almost like being inside a stained-glass window, or perhaps a rainbow. Shiny silvery buildings tower over us, reaching what seems like miles into the sky and hovercars travel hundreds of feet up in the air. It's enough to make my head spin with the wonder of it all.

The train comes to a complete stop at the platform and I reluctantly step away from the window, as does Marvel, who until now I hadn't realized was beside me. Cashmere waits for me in the doorway, and when I reach her, she carefully tugs a few curls over my shoulder, straightening the strap of my flimsy dress. "Prepare yourself," she warns me. "They'll all want a piece of you. Give them what they want, but remember, you're here to win. I'll try to keep them away, as will Devon, but there's only so much we can do." Her voice is tinged with a certain emotion that I can't identify, and I don't know why, but before I can ask, we're being rushed to the door of the train to disembark.

Again with the crowds of screaming people, only this time it isn't just reporters. Actual Capitol citizens line the pathway to the Training Centre, waving pamphlets with our faces and names on them and screaming for autographs. A group of teenaged boys with matching coal-black skin and violent orange irises shout innuendos and obscene jokes my way, and I have to really struggle to block out their disgusting words. Cashmere walks beside me, though, and her face, impassive and serene as ever, makes it much easier for me to focus amid the chaos as our small entourage quickly strides down the wide marble promenade.

Ahead of us is the great glass Training Centre, the place where, previous to the pre-Games training, I will be buffed and polished until I shine like one of the huge gems embedded in the pavement below my feet. I cannot help but feel slightly apprehensive at the prospect, though I know both Devon and Cashmere are on fairly good terms with the District One style team. Hopefully they will be able to draw the line before I end up looking utterly ridiculous, like many tributes from lesser districts seem to do year after year. Its been a while since there was such a mishap with District One, but you never know with the Capitol stylists. I'm just hoping for a form of clothing to cover me at all.

We are swept quickly into the air conditioned lobby, where I shiver rapidly for a few seconds before my body can adjust to the climate change. The high-ceilinged room is enormous, stretching hundreds of feet upward to a brilliant arched ceiling made entirely of glass. The entire building is a huge spire; the lobby, where I stand now, is the center of the tower, rising up like the backbone of the entire building. The rooms above, reserved floor-by-floor for the tributes, are arranged in rings around this center spire. Sunlight streams downwards from the great glass dome above to rest comfortably on my cheekbones, warming me from the inside out, and I find myself slightly more relaxed.

"Glimmer and Marvel? District One?" A petite woman with violet hair and matching eyes trots up to me in impossibly high heels. "Ooh, you're even prettier in person," she murmurs reverently, stroking my cheek in an all too familiar manner. Am I nothing but a pretty face to these people?

Before I can lose control and slap her hand away, I smile widely at the woman. "Yes, that's us," I say in a charming voice. "It's so lovely to meet you!" I add just a touch of reverence and awe to my voice, playing the part of the awed district girl, and it does the trick; the woman smiles bigger than ever.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" she cries, clapping her hands excitedly. "I knew this year's Games would be absolutely fabulous. Just wait until we get you all cleaned up a bit, you'll be better than ever!" She shrugs her bird-skinny shoulders and consults her huge clipboard. "If you'll just take the elevators over there, the District One quarters are on the first floor. We've made sure your rooms are all ready to go." The pink-hued woman looks up to flash me a final brilliant smile, pointing off to the left, where I can see a wide hallway leading to a bank of crystal clear elevators.

"Thank you," Cashmere says firmly as the woman opens her mouth to gush some more, and I snicker slightly. Marvel darts a cocky glance my direction, and I take the opportunity to raise my eyebrows playfully before following my mentor towards the elevator. Behind me, I can hear Onyx whispering frantically to his tribute, no doubt warning Marvel about the dangers of associating with the female half of the District One team.

Cashmere pulls me into the first elevator and quickly presses the button to close the doors before Marvel and Onyx can catch up before punching the golden enameled button labeled "1." I go to lean back against the wall, but she catches my wrist and shakes her head slightly, gesturing behind us to where, I can see, the crowd of Capitol reporters and citizens still waits, separated only by a thin glass wall and a tall set of gleaming stairs. Ah. We're still on film. Taking my cue, I smile widely and wave to my adoring fans. Flashbulbs wink through the sunstruck glass as the elevator glides up to our floor, and then the view is lost as the doors slide open and I blow one last kiss before following Cashmere out into the hallway.

The District One apartments seem to be decorated in a similar style to that of the train; that is, stuffed with as much gold and as many jewels as possible. I wonder if this is just the current fashion or if they're trying to reflect the theme of the district… I laugh as I imagine a forest theme for the seventh floor, or walls dusted with coal for District Twelve. I'm sure there are stranger sights to be seen in the Capitol.

As the next elevator dings faintly and I hear Marvel and his hulking mentor step out, I trip lightly down the hall to where Cashmere has disappeared, which turns out to be the dining room. A horde of white-clad Avoxes- Capitol servants without tongues, convicted traitors serving lifelong punishment- already bustles about uncovering steaming dishes of food. Really, do all Capitol people eat this frequently? We only left home half a day ago, and we've already eaten two meals, and are now onto a third. But as I seat myself, I realize that every platter seems to be covered with some form of dessert or pastry. Well. That's different. An entire meal just for sweets.

I decide my sweet tooth, being nearly nonexistent, does not need indulging tonight, and I lean back in my chair with only a glass of brilliantly orange juice. "So what now?" I ask of the room in general as Marvel and Onyx drift noisily in to grab large portions of whatever's closest. Men. Such pigs.

It's Devon who answers, to my surprise; when did he get up here? But he's seated at the head of the table, nonchalantly examining his painted-black nails, which are distractingly studded with tiny rhinestones. "You know the drill, Glimmer. When you wake up in the morning, it's makeover time!" He waggles his fingers in the air, accompanying his words with hand gestures for effect. "Although I don't see how much of a difference it'll make for you," he adds, and although his voice is entirely nonchalant and I know our Capitol escort means nothing by his casual remark, I have the nauseating sensation of being eyed by every member of the male species in the room, not excluding a few Avoxes who quickly look away when they see my vicious glare.

"Enough ogling," Cashmere snaps breezily, and I feel a rush of gratitude. "When you're finished with dessert, you should go try to get some sleep, both of you." She directs her gaze at Marvel, who casts a disdainful gaze across the beautiful woman telling him what to do before leaning back in his chair and defiantly placing his booted feet on the table. I want to tell him to wipe the smirk off his face, but Cashmere beats me to it. So fast I barely see it, a knife previously set next to my mentor's plate spins across the room to slam with a dull thud into the paneling behind Marvel's head, quivering ominously. He gulps, caught off guard.

"Do _not_ look at me like that again, or you'll find yourself face down on the floor, tribute or not," she snarls rather emphatically. Without waiting for a response, Cashmere nods her head towards me and, as I get to my feet, strides quickly from the room.

"Goodnight," I wave somewhat gleefully to the room. Marvel looks bemused, not an unusual expression on his face, Onyx looks ready to explode, and Devon simply leans back in his seat and rolls his eyes.

"Women," he says through a mouthful of preserves. "What can you do?"

**A/N**

**Remember to review! Next chapter begins the Games in earnest… starting with a visit from the style team and ending with the Opening Ceremonies. Shoot me a PM to let me know what you think about the chapter, or just say it all in your review. Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N

Another chapter begins, and I'm particularly excited for this one. I've gotten several questions about Marvel's intentions, which makes me very happy… you'll see why when you read. This one involves the lead-up to the Opening Ceremonies, which was a blast to write because I'd had Glimmer's dress planned for a while, and I finally get to hare it. As always, outfits on my profile, and I hope you enjoy.

Remember to read on ½ setting, thanks!

-Iri

The next morning, I awake rather abruptly to brilliant sunlight on my face. Squinting against the glare, I glance at the clock across the room, only to find my view of it blocked by a rather strange sight. Two women and a man, all dressed in the height of Capitol fashion and bedecked in feathers and glitter and obscene amounts of color, stand in front of my bed. Now, I'm used to sudden awakenings, either at the hands of Cashmere or my father, but this is something else.

"How did you get into my room?" I demand, sitting bolt upright in bed. The idea that they can creep up on me so easily is disconcerting, to say the least.

"I let them in," comes a lazy but familiar voice from the doorway. I turn to see Cashmere, fully dressed and looking fresh-faced as always, munching a scone and smiling wryly at me. "Your style team is here," she adds unnecessarily. "Rise and shine, Glimmer."

I inhale slowly, trying to keep my patience, and swipe a few fingers under my eyes before clambering rather clumsily from my cocoon of warm sheets. "Fine, fine, I'm awake. Now what?"

I wish I hadn't asked. The trio of brightly colored persons squeals almost in unison and darts forward to surround me, all jabbering away, their voices overlapping to form an overwhelming cacophony of sound. Their high-pitched babbling immediately gets on my nerves and I flail my arms about as if I'm shooing away flies.

My style team is not dissuaded, however; the tallest of the women, sporting a shock of inky black hair, grabs my wrist and begins to yank me towards the doorway before she comes to a dead halt.

"Remember, Imelda, no alterations, no permanent changes," Cashmere warns, her voice flat and warning as she blocks the door. I glance at my mentor with relief, and the woman named Imelda pouts slightly.

"Oh, Cashmere, you're such a bore! And when I think of all the fun we could have had!" She sighs and turns back to look at me with a speculative look in her fuchsia eyes. "Well, we'd better go. I can't wait to make you over! Just think, what a work of art she could be!" These last words are directed to the two other stylists standing behind me, who hastily agree with far too many superlatives for this early in the morning.

Cashmere gives me one last searching look, pursing her lips, and steps aside. Imelda immediately takes off, jerking me out the door and down the hallway before I can blink. We pass Marvel on the way to the elevator bay where he stands, a vaguely uncomfortable look on his face, next to his similarly-stoic mentor. "And don't you worry, sweetie, Julia will be out for you in just a second!"

I have to fight back hysterical laughter at the expression on his face. _Sweetie?_ Cashmere tosses me a wry look, lips pursed, as Imelda drags me away. She's surprisingly strong for such a small woman.

"Don't forget, I have to approve the costume before she goes out there!" my mentor calls after us. Imelda, I am relatively amused to see, tosses her nose farther in the air in an obvious snub, and I marvel at her insolence. Back home, disrespect is practically a capital offense, considering the many layers of gossip, secrecy, lies and familial honor that make up our society, and mouthing off to a victor is never wise. But here, I am beginning to realize fully for the first time, we have no power. The thought is unsettling, to say the least.

Hours later, I feel like an entirely different person. I've been scrubbed and scraped and every hair on my body, apart from those on my head, has been ripped from my skin. All the funny-smelling concoctions they've slathered on me are making my head spin, they're so sweet. But I suppose it's worth it, as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror.

In the opening ceremonies, the tributes are paraded through the city, and it's traditional to be dressed to represent your district's industry. Seven's kids are always trees, for example, and Eleven always shows up in agriculture-related getups. For District One, though, it's the lap of luxury, and I look it right now.

My skin has been frosted in shimmering silver, and my hair, usually closer to gold, seems to glow a burnished white, just as it does in the moonlight at home when Cashmere and I go for our rare nighttime swims in the pond in my father's gardens. The once-glossy curls, now smoothed into a cloud of perfectly straight, fluffy strands, have been swept back with a delicate silver headband. The style is soft and elegant yet somehow still emits an aura of intimidation.

Heavy silver and diamond earrings, rose shaped, sharp-edged, and embellished with tiny black crystals, dominate my ears. My face has been similarly coated in a layer of glimmering silver, and my eyes are lined with sultry darkness, bringing to mind images of a daring seductress, someone not quite human, a creature straight from legend.

But the best part is the dress. Made of what appear to be tiny armor plates but are really just massive gems of varying sizes, it flows effortlessly from the neckline in a deep cleavage baring V, making me appear taller than my average height and causing my skin to glow even brighter. It's short, hitting me on the upper thigh, which I'm grateful for, because at least I'll be able to move freely. The bodice is gathered to make the contrast between the slim waist and fuller hips more prominent, and the entire thing is absolutely encrusted with huge white diamonds and other glittering precious stones, all flashing brilliantly silver at the slightest movement on my part. The effect is stunning.

"Do you love it?" Imelda practically shouts in my ear. Her gleeful voice brings me back to reality. I've learned that she is, by far, the most annoying of my style team, which consists of a dark haired man by the name of Raphael, another violently cheerful woman, Lorena, and finally my stylist, Irene, who is as soft-spoken and quiet as her team is obnoxious.

"Yes, actually," I answer, surprised by my honesty, "it's great. I love it." And I do; the entire costume, while ridiculously over the top and garish, will not seem out of place in City Circle tonight, and I am fully confident that I will outshine all the opposition.

I turn away from the mirror to face my grinning prep team, who all cheer happily and hug each other. "Oh, we're going to make such a splash this year!" Lorena squeals in near-operatic tones. "Can you imagine the look on everyone's faces when they see her? I mean, the boy's not bad to look at either, but her?" She looks at me, her creepy red irises filling with tears. "Oh, Glimmer, you're going to make us famous!" With another round of high fives and cheers, the three irritating individuals leap from the room, and blessed silence ensues.

"Oh, thank you," I moan, wanting more than anything to just go lay down somewhere and not think about anything fashion-related for a few days. I may be beautiful, but I'd rather have a sword in my hand than a lipstick, and that's a fact. Not to mention the headache I can feel coming on, a direct result, no doubt, of the incessant chatter I've suffered through for the past few hours.

"You're welcome," Irene says softly, and I jolt. I'd forgotten she was even in the room. Never mind that I wasn't thanking her for the makeup or the fancy dress, just expressing my relief at my prep team's departure. She's one of them, too, and she doesn't seem to live in reality.

"I just wanted to say that I cannot wait to make your Victor's Interview dress," she continues, her moon-pale face glowing with happiness. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, we have to get through the pre-Game interviews!" She chuckles lightly, and I wince. _Not to mention the actual Games themselves, in which I may or may not die a very painful, public death._

"Anyways, it's time for us to go," she smiles gently at me. "Your mentor has requested that she view your costuming in private before we head down to meet the others. Shall we?" She doesn't bother to wait around though, and trots gracefully out the door as if I am an obedient puppy dog sure to follow at her heels. For a moment, I consider walking the other way, but I know that Cashmere would kill me, so I stifle a groan and follow my shallow, if somewhat more bearable than most, stylist out the door.

As I try to catch up- running in 6-inch heels proves impossible, even for me- Irene turns swiftly into an unmarked room on the left side of the hallway, gesturing for me to hurry along. I purposely slow my pace to a snail's crawl and do my best to appear detached and bored before striding past her into the room.

Cashmere stands directly across from me, accompanied by Devon, and when I enter the room, her brilliant blue eyes immediately focus on me. She rakes her gaze up and down my body, examining the dress and the makeup before turning to Irene with an approving nod.

"Well done," she says acerbically. "You kept Imelda in check. I am impressed." Irene looks faintly miffed, but smiles and tosses back her long orange tresses.

"Now, please excuse me for a moment. I need to have a discussion with my tribute. Devon?" She glances sharply at my district escort, who throws Cashmere a pained glance, one that says he is not happy, but sighs and stalks over to Irene.

"Let's give these two ladies some space, shall we?" She smiles coyly and allows him to lead her from the room. As soon as the door hisses shut, I gag loudly.

"Hush, Glimmer," Cashmere admonishes me sharply, but her lips curve into a small smile. "He'll be angry with me later, but it's worth it. You look stunning." She gestures for me to turn and I twirl, the edges of my skirt making the slightest tinkling noise as the small bits of metal and precious stones clink together. "Yes, she did a good job with you. I can guarantee that no one in that audience will be able to keep their eyes off you for long. Anyway, it's time to go," she says, straightening the neckline of her dress. I notice for the first time that we coordinate, from her short white and silver dress down to the diamond necklace clasped firmly around her neck.

"Oh, I almost forgot." She pauses and reaches into the folds of her short, draped skirt, removing a small velvet box. "You need a token, remember?" She hands it to me, and I take it, bewildered.

"But… I thought…" I trail off, confused, and Cashmere looks at me with eyebrows raised. "I thought we agreed that I didn't need a token. You know I want nothing from my father," I say, my lip curling in disgust. "And I don't need one, anyways. I'm going to win this. Why do I need a reminder?" Shaking my head, I go to hand the box back to my mentor, but she holds up a hand.

"Just open it," Cashmere says firmly. I don't get it; when did she become so sentimental? But I sigh and open the small white velvet box.

Nestled inside is a silver ring, set with a huge emerald. I gape at the amazing show of wealth; the emerald has to be half an inch across, and is surrounded by rows of sparkling white diamonds. This ring has to have cost a small fortune. I look up at my mentor with shocked eyes.

"What on earth…" I can't even form words. I may be from District One, but we just make the fancy jewelry, we don't get to wear it. And most people never even see the finished product. How Cashmere got her hands on this, I don't know.

She laughs aloud, tossing her hair back, and reaches out to take the box from me. "A few friends of mine managed to… procure this for me," she says with a twinkle in her sapphire eyes. "But it's a lot more than just a ring, Glimmer. Let's just say I had some special alterations done."

Her eyes on mine, she plucks the ring from the box and, looking to make sure I'm watching, holds it up to the light. "Watch this." Her slim fingers find a small catch, previously unnoticed by me, hidden just under the edge of the large green gem. With one twist of her fingertip, she trips it, and I watch with surprise as the emerald itself pivots in the setting.

Tilting the ring towards me, Cashmere says, "Take a closer look." She gestures for me to take it, and I do, handling the small band gingerly. To my astonishment, beneath the gem lies a tiny spike, barely noticeable. "Poisoned," my mentor smirks. "Hit someone with that and they'll drop in ten seconds."

"Wow," I manage. The ring's an incredibly good idea, and it'll definitely give me an edge in the arena, where anything can happen, but… I wrinkle my forehead. "But, if the catch is so obvious, won't they notice? I mean, you have to submit your token for examination." I look at Cashmere with doubt plain on my face. "There's no way they aren't going to figure it out. And when they do, you know they'll take it away."

"That's the point," Cashmere laughs. "Don't you see, Glimmer? How do you think all the tributes get their information? _Their mentors tell them everything._ Gossip is the biggest source of information in the Games, and you're kidding yourself if you think this won't be big news. The pretty girl from District One? 'Oh, she can't possibly be a threat. She's beautiful, but she can't be smart, too. She can't possibly have what it takes to win.'" Her face is glowing now, but her voice is soft, calm, serene.

"Glimmer, you've always hated it. How people never take you seriously because you're beautiful." The words strike home, and I know she's right. For years, I've been the target of doubt and ridicule. No one thought I could ever win the Games, no matter how hard I tried to prove otherwise.

"And just think. You're going to go out there tonight, looking like you do now, and they're all going to have that same thought running through their heads. But when they hear about the ring… They'll know. They'll know you've got something up your sleeve. They won't count you out again. Or, if they do, they'll soon find it's their last mistake."

Cashmere's words fill me with hope. She's right. I've been dreading this, almost unconsciously, for months. But her reassuring words have forced all my doubt away. I'm not just a pretty face. I have the wiles, the intelligence it takes to win this. And the sooner they all see it, the better. And I'm smiling, and it's a real smile, not the silly fake kind I've been flashing Marvel for days, and it feels so good. Cashmere smiles in response, and it's like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Suddenly, I feel stronger than ever. Call it adrenaline, call it whatever, but right now, with the woman who is like an older sister to me, I feel ready. I will win these Games.

A few minutes later, Cashmere and I, along with Devon and Irena, arrive downstairs in the basement on the Training Center, where chaos currently reigns. This is where the tributes are assembled for the Opening Ceremony and the parade, and the entire giant room is filled with noise and the heavy smell of perfume and horses. My sharp eyes quickly flicker over the crowd that has gathered, taking note of certain individuals who stand out among the masses of frantic stylists and harried Capitol officials.

Almost directly across the large room from me stands the entire District Two entourage, where a tall and rather fearsome-looking man I recognize as a past victor seems to be giving last minute instructions to his two very bored-looking tributes. The girl, Clove, is even tinier in person; her district partner effectively dwarfs her, and the contrast is almost comical, or it would be if I could forget just how deadly both of them are sure to be. While the petite girl may look like little more than a child, I know that she has skills beyond anything I could ever dream of. District Two has a long-standing history of producing the best-trained tributes in the Games, and I know it's not likely to be any different this year.

My eyes flicker over to her massive district partner, who is tall and muscular and makes even Marvel, a well-trained and bulked up mass of pure force, look like a puny child in comparison. The man- for he is a man, not a boy- stands in a casually defensive posture that I recognize at once. Here is one who is used to being attacked, and has become accustomed to remaining on guard every second, every waking hour and then some. I have to swallow back a bit of apprehension as I examine him up and down; I may be trained, but my grace and elegant style of fighting will be nothing to his deadly brute force. There is a tribute I do not want to take head on.

Beside me, Cashmere also pauses as she takes in the size of my rival for the first time in person. "Well, he'll be a challenge," she murmurs thoughtfully, tapping a well-manicured finger against my bare shoulder.

"You think?" I hiss sarcastically, keeping my usual seductive-yet-sweet smile plastered firmly on my face, though it takes some effort. "He's huge! There is no way I'm going to be able to take him down alone, and you know his little district partner will fight with him."

"Yes, the Two tributes always seem to have that strange sense of honor. At least you won't have to worry about either of them stabbing you in the back," she laughs lightly. The sound is carefree and meant to attract attention, which it does, from the nearest parties. I see the tributes from Three and Nine look over at where my mentor and I stand, and I am both gratified and irritated to see every male in the close proximity immediately focus in on my body.

Cashmere picks up on my faint discomfort, and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Relax, Glimmer. They'll all be dead soon anyways. Might as well get a little mileage out of it while you can." She locks her eyes on mine, blue honing into green, and her meaning is clear. Cashmere knows- has known for some time- how irritating I find the constant leers, the approving eyes, the wandering gazes. She has had years to build up a thick skin; I have not. But the Games bring out the worst in us all, and if I must suffer the stifling desire, the lecherous glances, in order to get ahead, then that is what she expects me to do.

With a last comforting squeeze of my arm, she nods her head towards the chariot, where Irene and the other stylist, a rotund man with flaming red skin, seem to be comparing style tips in front of a bored-looking Devon. "I'll be over there. Go socialize," she winks.

"You are so going to owe me for this," I hiss through my blinding smile. Cashmere only laughs aloud, a light, tinkling laugh completely unlike her real one, and shakes her head slowly, the dim indoor lighting glinting off her luminescent hair, a mirror image of my own before turning and striding purposefully in the direction of the District One chariot, where I see Marvel glancing over at me.

He quickly seems to make the decision to join me in my mission to socialize with the competition; I see him hop swiftly, to the angered cries of his stylist, over the railing on the edge of the chariot and jog quickly in my direction. Behind him, the male stylist is shouting something in a high-pitched manner, and I cannot help but laugh at his antics. These Capitol people have a lot to learn if they think they will ever be able to order around a tribute from District One and get away with it.

"Hey," Marvel says as he trots up to join me. I am vaguely pleased by the appearance we give; that I am the one in charge, that he follows _me_. The subtle body language, his eagerness to be seen with the most beautiful girl in the Games, it only serves to further cement my standing in the minds of the other tributes. And so I smile cheerfully at Marvel as he stops by my side. After all, he's practically doing me a favor.

"Hey yourself," I tease him lightly, pushing his shoulder with one hand. I am immediately gratified to see his eyes widen for only the tiniest fraction of a second before he reigns in his emotions with as much skill as is practically required to survive in District One, where espionage, poison, and the more subtle art of manipulation is the way. Good. He isn't such a bad actor as I had dreaded.

"Did you want to come along with me? I thought we might work on making a few alliances while we're waiting. You interested?"

"Why not?" my partner replies, shrugging nonchalantly. His eyes dart across the room behind my back, coming to rest on one particular point. "Here's an idea: let's start with District Two." His voice, pleasant a moment ago, is suddenly filled with malice, and I almost shrink back from his ugly tone before I catch myself. Instead, I turn to see what he is looking at, and quickly decide that my partner is correct.

The pair from Two stand silently in their chariot, quite successfully ignoring their hovering style teams as they simply scan the room. Their air of detached ferocity is clear, and I don't have to wonder why all the tributes nearest to their party are shying away in terror. The expressions on their faces are of pure determination and entirely unadulterated calm.

I can see, just by looking at their faces, that I may not have the corner on acting skills in this arena. Not with the tiny dark-haired girl, so nonchalantly leaned against the gleaming black rail of their vehicle, staring firmly into my eyes. Her face is small and deathly-pale, but backlit by years of harsh and intense training, months of starvation and early risings, all to achieve something twenty-three other people in this room are all fighting for: freedom. And while I may feel some empathy for her struggle, having fought a similar one of my own for years, I know this girl will not hesitate to leave me lying in the dust.

As Marvel and I approach, I see the girl straighten up, gesturing to her massive partner with a single jerk of her head. The scowling man, too, stands up a little taller, leaning forwards ever so slightly. His hand drifts towards his waist, no doubt an unconscious gesture learned over years of carrying a sword there. Too bad he's not armed now. _We'll see if his skill with words matches up, _I think rather malevolently.

"What's the deal, District Two?" I call out when several yards still separate us from the deadly duo. "Ready to join the army, or will you be scavenging alone this year?" I keep my tone light, a smile still on my lips, but my words are as biting as can be. In inviting them to join us, I create an alliance headed by District One, an alliance that is strictly under the control of myself and Marvel. And they don't like it.

Clove's upper lip draws back in a haughty sneer as she faces me over the rail of her chariot.

"I was under the impression that the Career alliance had yet to be formed. You speak as though you've already instituted it, yet I've not seen you visit the District Four chariot yet tonight. Can it be you come to your biggest threat first?" She replies in a scathing tone. I watch as she leaps effortlessly from the small wooden vehicle, landing lightly on her feet next to her partner, who seems locked in a posturing match with Marvel.

"Our biggest threat? How can that be, when half the District Two team looks unable to take out a ten-year-old? I simply cannot imagine anyone in District Two bothering to train you, taking into account the high propensity of undersized children that die on day one each year." It's a low blow and not a very good one at that, but the comment about her size will achieve what I want it to… I hope.

"Well, now, I can only tell you the story behind my training if you tell me yours. How did a pretty little rich brat like you make the cut, Glimmer? Or did you pay someone off?" Clove's eyes dance in her face, and I realize she is in her element here, trading words like a master. But there's something else in her eyes, something that reminds me an awful lot of respect. I know enough about tributes from Two to know they aren't trained for nothing. Clove is most likely a figure of great fear back home, and she probably doesn't get many challengers, physically or in a battle of wits. My work here is done; I've won the respect, however grudging, of at least half the pair from Two, and there's no need to stick around much longer. Clove has said the Career alliance shall stand, and that's enough for me.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough there's more to me than just the pretty face," I reply airily before fixing my gaze on the dark-haired girl in front of me. "Am I to assume we are done here, then?"

"We are," Clove confirms, and her district partner nods in agreement, his dark eyes flashing over to meet mine for the first time. It is now that I realize my charms will be of little to no use here; this man, Cato as they said his name was during the reaping replay, cares nothing for beauty or lust or my meaningless flirtations. In his deep blue eyes I see the stark determination, the will of iron, of a Hunger Games champion. He will win the Games or he will die trying, and that is that.

I'm saved the effort of responding further when I hear the shrill sound of mechanical bells ring out through the room, signifying that the parade will soon begin. "Well then, until later," I say dryly to our newfound allies as Marvel nods silently to his opposition. Clove doesn't respond, merely affixes her dark gaze on my face as I turn away to walk back to my carriage with Marvel drifting by my side. I glance over at my usually more vocal partner, unsurprised by the dark expression on his face. He must know by now that he cannot hope to best Cato merely on his physical strength. While Marvel may be the strongest and largest of the tribute trainees in District One, and in most of Panem, for that matter, it's clear that Cato has the edge in that particular category.

"I wonder what they're feeding them in District Two," I muse aloud, meaning only to needle my partner slightly. "Obviously not enough to bring the girl up to size. Her waist is about the size of your arm." My jovial tone sounds fake, even to me, and Marvel looks over with a scowl.

"Don't pretend to care, Glimmer. You and I both know your little act means nothing when the gong sounds. You'd just as likely stab me in the back as ally with me." His voice is gruff but level, and I find myself surprised at the strength of his perception. All along, I'd thought I was playing him. Now, I realize, he's just been playing along.

"What gave it away?" I ask him, deliberately abandoning my earlier tone of lighthearted giddiness and substituting for it one of more appropriate steel. Marvel snorts humorlessly.

"Please, Glimmer. Your reputation precedes you. Everyone in District One knows you wouldn't be caught dead associating yourself with the likes of us mere mortals, even if said mortals happen to be as powerful as District Two." I raise an eyebrow.

"Wow, Marvel, I'm hurt. And here I thought I was doing such a good job," I tease him. I tease him because it's the only thing I can do, because to do otherwise and admit my subterfuge outright will only undermine my ability in these Games. "And I'm not going to stab you in the back," I continue, slightly more seriously. "I'm pretty sure the whole of District One would have my head when I return home."

"So sure you're returning home, then?" he asks, and at first I'm on guard and about to snap back. Then I see the corner of his mouth is lifted just slightly.

"You've never seen me fight, Wonder Boy. You'd be surprised how many tricks I've got hidden up my sleeves." Marvel scoffs loudly and turns to face me, a mocking look on his face.

"What sleeves? You do realize you've worn next to nothing every second since the reaping? Not that I'm arguing…"

I shove him in response. His chest is hard, a wall of muscle. He shoves me back, and though I have to strain every muscle in my body to remain upright and unmoving, I manage. "Shut up, Marvel," I say, flashing him my signature grin. He rolls his eyes, disgusted but still smiling ever so faintly.

"So, truce then? I watch your back and you watch mine?" he asks, his face suddenly dead serious. I stop walking, taking a deep breath before responding.

"How about, I watch my back and don't stab yours," I suggest. This time I actually coax a laugh out of my tall and imposing partner.

"All right," he agrees with a wide smile, "truce it is." And he reaches out to shake my hand. I take it and instinctively squeeze as hard as I can, which involves considerable force. Cashmere's had me doing a full list of strength training exercises for years. Marvel's grip is similarly firm and after a moment, we both let go with a slight wince. "Not bad," he concedes.

"No," I agree. "Not bad at all." And we walk in silence the rest of the way to our chariot. Inside, I'm a bit apprehensive for what this new little white flag means for my chances in the Games. Technically, they should improve, considering I've got Marvel truly watching my back now. There's an unspoken rule in the districts; you never leave a man behind. In Career terms, that means, above not killing your partner, you honor alliances until you cannot do so anymore.

Stabbing someone when their back is turned is considered a low and dishonorable thing to do, and while it may be the only resort of an untrained tribute from a lesser district, we are Careers, and therefore owe it to ourselves and our districts to follow the unwritten rules of warfare. Thanks to our little chat just now, I know that Marvel will not be the one to kill me, nor I him, unless it comes down to the two of us. And somehow, I suspect it won't be that easy.

Cashmere and Onyx await us as we draw within a few meters of the chariot, where our stylists seem embroiled in a heated discussion of the pros and cons of fire-resistant pearls in decorating. Cashmere's eyes are on me as I stop in front of the chariot. They are searching, piercing. I know she wants to know what my little conversation with Marvel entailed, but she also knows I can't very well tell her here. There are listening ears all around us, and not just those of Marvel and his team, but also every other tribute and mentor in the near vicinity. Which, as I look around, is a lot. Everyone but District Twelve seems to have arrived.

"Hurry, hurry now!" Marvel's stylist squawks nervously, his flame red skin undulating to an anxious, sickly shade of yellow. "The parade's about to start!" I jerk away as he goes to grasp my arm, ripping the appendage from his grip.

"I can do it myself just fine," I snap viciously before stepping lightly and gracefully up into the carriage. Marvel swings himself up next to me, steadying himself with a hand on the railing.

"Good, good, good," Irene titters, turning to her counterpart. "Don't they look just divine together?" I glance over at Marvel through the corner of my eye; as far as I know, we look just as good together as two people each determined to kill the other can look, I suppose.

Like me, his skin is dusted in silver, his ordinarily blondish-brown hair thick with it. He's wearing a silver tunic decorated in similar fashion to my dress, although it remains unfastened, swinging open in the faint breeze from the climate control systems. Otherwise, he's bare-chested to the hips, where a pair of low-slung white trousers held up with a heavy metal belt reveal an impressive musculature. Diamonds wink in the low light from every inch of his clothing and even from the corners of his gray eyes.

I purse my lips, satisfied. We look like proper tributes, at least, unlike the pair from Eleven, whose stylists seem to have given up on trying to match the tiny twelve-year-old with her much larger and more imposing partner and have instead decided to emphasize their more obvious differences. They look ridiculous together, whereas Marvel and I are a matched pair. Deadly and beautiful, just as District One should be.

As the torches begin to dim and a set of Capitol attendants rushes to flank the massive wooden doors leading out to City Circle, Cashmere comes to stand by my side of the chariot. She waves for me to lean down and I oblige, tilting my ear inches from her mouth.

"Don't forget," she whispers. "Save the fighting for the arena. Beauty is your best weapon here. Use it, Glimmer." She pulls back and stares me dead in the eyes, giving my hand one last squeeze. I smile at her, a normal smile, not the fake one I have worn almost constantly for the last two days. She smiles back and steps away from the chariot as the wheels begin to turn. "Good luck!" she calls. And then we roll forward into the light and she is gone.

A/N

Hope you enjoyed it… remember to REVIEW please! Even if it's just an anonymous review, it really makes my day when I get to read it, so please take the time. Thanks!

-Iri

Oh, and next time, look forward to some big revelations… Yes, I'm evil, but what's life without a little suspense?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N

First off, thank you to my reviewers, you guys have been awesome. I'm really excited for this chapter… let the Games begin in earnest! This one pretty much covers the Opening ceremonies and then next time, we'll get our first up-close encounter with the other tributes…

Remember to read on ½ setting, and REVIEW!

-Iri

************

I am momentarily rendered blind by the flashes of cameras as our chariot pulls forward on the smoothly paved route towards City Circle, but my eyes soon adjust enough to make out the huge avenue down which Marvel and I are rolling, lined with an awesome amount of people, all screaming and shouting various forms of "District One!" and "Glimmer and Marvel!" The surrounding buildings, too, seem filled to bursting as Capitol citizens lean out of upstairs windows and gather on balconies to wave and throw flowers and gifts.

_Remember what Cashmere said,_ I think unnecessarily to myself as I plaster on a blinding smile and wave animatedly to the crowds. Beside me, Marvel stands tall and proud, not waving but at least smiling and acknowledging the hordes of potential sponsors who line the streets for a simple glimpse of him, although his smile is more of a cocky smirk. I suppose it is the best I can hope for from him.

I glance up at one of the large television screens that line the parade route as the chariot rounds a corner, rather taken aback by the view. Marvel and I are being projected, thirty feet tall, across the whole of the wide avenue. I must say, we look even better on the large screen. I hardly recognize myself beneath all the silver makeup and without my usual curls; it is as if I am a different person than the girl who stood onstage at the reaping just yesterday.

This girl, this new Glimmer, is even more stunning than the old. I may be attractive naturally, but the expertly applied Capitol beauty products seem to have transformed me into an entirely different person, one without a single flaw to speak of. It's actually disconcerting and I find myself wishing I could scrub it all off where I stand, but I force myself to look away from the screen and focus on the audience once more.

The screams only intensify in volume as the chariot turns the final corner and I see the wide expanse of the City Circle laid out before me. Directly to the front is the presidential mansion, a huge building made entirely of white stone and reaching hundreds of feet into the air. The Circle is lined with glittering lights that seem to float, unaided, in midair, illuminating the faces of the eager Capitol citizens who crowd the sides of the wide boulevard.

This is where the truly wealthy live, the ones who can afford to buy more than just a bottle of water and a few crackers during the Games. The difference is faintly discernable; the people here sit in velvet-lined chairs raised above the rest of the crowd, hold expensive programs and sip brightly colored drinks from tall glasses.

Here, I up the ante a bit, blowing kisses and tossing back my hair and turning up my most seductive look, the sort that would've melted any boy at home into a quivering puddle on the street. The kind I've never bothered to seriously use. But it seems to be working. My name is their mantra now, echoing off the tall buildings and reverberating through the circle like a battle cry.

Our horses slow to a halt as our chariot comes to rest just off to the left of the president's front steps, where flags and banners wave proudly in the colors of Panem. Thirty or forty feet up, the president himself sits in a gilded throne on a private balcony, watching the parade. I can see his snake-like face from here, and I shiver. He hasn't aged in as long as I can remember… not to mention the fact that he could have anyone in this crowd executed at the snap of a finger. I shake myself and look away.

It is then that I begin to notice something else stirring in the crowd. A new chant, one deeper and more powerful than before. I turn to Marvel, confused, but he shrugs and looks just as confused and disturbed as I feel. I look to my right and see that all the other chariots have pulled up to form the traditional semicircle in front of the presidential mansion. All but one, that is…

I'm pretty sure my mouth must be hanging open in shock as the District Twelve chariot rounds the final corner, bringing with it the two newest tributes to enter the game. The circle is nearly shaking now with the intensity of the applause.

"Katniss!"

"Peeta!"

"District Twelve!"

I stare in disbelief at the image on the monitors above us all; the two tributes from the lowly coal district appear wreathed in flames, illuminating their faces in a fiery halo of light. They are stunning, glorious. And they're holding hands. This I do not understand. Yes, alliances are common between district partners, but such bonds rarely run any deeper. I don't know why the team from Twelve has chosen to play the game this way. It's unheard of, radical. And yet it seems to be working.

As President Snow calms the crowd and begins his speech, I find my eyes continuously drawn to the flaming pair, who find themselves featured on the huge overhead screens almost constantly. To my small relief, Marvel and I are second in terms of screen time, followed by Cato and Clove and the nondescript but nevertheless prominent pair from the fellow Career district of Four, but the boy and girl from Twelve have nevertheless stolen the show. _This is bad,_ I think, _this is very bad._ By the time the Opening Ceremonies end, I am nearly in tears with frustration.

My beauty is my only bargaining chip in these Games; without it, what chance do I have of winning? Sure, I'm a formidable warrior, I've trained for years to become one, but I need those sponsors. All the posturing, the flirting, the costuming, all of it is surely for naught. I have been upstaged, something that has never occurred in all my life. And I don't know what to do.

I have to force myself to keep smiling and waving as the chariots begin the journey back to the Training Center; there are still cameras watching, still people to impress, although I don't know how effective such tactics can be, now that District Twelve has swooped in to steal the spotlight.

When the chariot rumbles to a halt at last inside the relative safety of the Training Center, I don't wait for an invitation, instead jumping down before the wheels have even ceased turning. Without a word, I stalk away, fully intending to return to my room and not emerge for the rest of the night. Marvel is hot on my heels, his face a mass of murderous rage. I think I can guess who just made numbers one and two on his kill list, although I'm sure Cato is still a close third.

Cashmere wordlessly joins us in the elevator, as does Onyx. The silence is thick and uncomfortable as the floors slide away, the faint dinging sound loud in the enclosed space. When the doors finally shudder open at the top floor, I'm almost relieved to stalk out and throw myself down on a chair in the dining room.

No one speaks for a long time; we're all too busy processing the events of the last two hours. I still can't believe it myself. District Twelve is just full of surprises this year. They've actually managed to field two tributes with a decent chance in the arena, instead of the usual cannon fodder they generally produce.

And to make matters worse, they've landed some upstart new stylist in need of a serious attitude check. Could it get any worse? My stress level has already skyrocketed; I'm already worried enough about dealing with the other members of the Career alliance, and now I've got to worry about two renegade coal miners running about. Lovely.

Onyx is the first to break the silence. "Well, I suppose that went as well as could be expected," he spits in a gruff tone. Of course, that could just be the way he talks. Cashmere is quick to follow up, however.

"It's over, it's done with now. We all need to move on," she says, eyes flashing in the dim ambient lighting. "Dwelling on it will only set us back further. I think at this point it's wise to say we're all going to have to work together to pull the sponsors back in our direction."

"Yeah, like we can compete with that," Marvel complains. "Even Blondie over here didn't get as much screen time, and she's practically one of _Them_!" Meaning, of course, the appearance-obsessed Capitol citizens. He gestures rather roughly in my direction and I'm not sure whether to be offended or pleased.

I pick the former, responding with as much acidity as I've ever produced. "Gee, thanks, _Wonder Boy._ Next time I'm palling around the Capitol, I'll be sure to drop you a line."

"Oh, shut up, Glimmer," Marvel snarls back. "It's not like you don't love the attention anyways. You're like some sort of housecat, always preening and vying for their attention. It's sick."

"You-" I stand up, sending my chair tumbling backwards with the force of my fury. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare talk about what you don't understa-"

"Enough!" Cashmere shouts. She stuns us all into silence. Even Devon, who seems to have drifted in unnoticed once again, appears speechless.

"Look, just listen for a minute," my mentor says tiredly, passing a hand over her eyes. "We can't afford to lose our heads now. There's training tomorrow, first off, and if you both pull good scores at the end of the week, the two from Twelve will be forgotten. Onyx, back me up here." The burly dark-haired man sighs and also gets to his feet.

"She's right. Obsessing about this now will only set us all back. Let's just focus on training." He turns to look at me from across the room. "Glimmer, what are your strengths?" I'm debating whether or not to answer, considering Marvel and I are not exactly the picture of team spirit, our earlier conversation aside, but Cashmere sends me a sharp glare and I reluctantly oblige.

"I've been trained with everything from knives to spears, but swords are my best," I say, running a hand through my disconcertingly-straight and smooth hair as I yawn, dislodging a plethora of silver glitter.

"And you, Marvel?" Cashmere asks the tall boy slumps in his chair. Good. At least we're maintaining a semblance of equality here.

"Spears," he replies simply. "I'm halfway decent with nets and such as well." My mentor purses her lips, processing this information carefully.

"In that case, I think the only thing we can do it go for it one hundred percent tomorrow. Do what you're best at, intimidate the others. Go for the intimidation factor. But don't spend too much time at the same station; work your way around everything you've got even a modicum of skill for. I want you both to look as imposing as possible."

"It wouldn't hurt either of you to do a little socializing, either," Onyx adds almost as an afterthought. "I know you'll have Four and Two to rely on in the beginning, but it would do you both good to at least make a few less enemies with the more powerful tributes. Like Eleven. Or the pair from Five, they looked halfway decent in the reapings. Even if you can make it so they don't all target you first thing, that's better than nothing. Understood?" His words make sense; I nod my agreement and Marvel does the same.

"All right then, let's get to bed," the other mentor yawns. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm having dinner in bed." With a quick gesture towards Marvel, Onyx nods to Cashmere and quickly makes himself scarce, his tribute following in quick succession. Within a few seconds, Cashmere and I are alone in the dining room. Alone, that is, except for Devon.

"Well, I thought you both performed brilliantly tonight," he says in a bright voice, his accent even more annoying now that I'm tired. For once, it appears not even Cashmere can stomach the voice of our district escort, and we rise as one to escape quickly from the room.

"Lovely. I'll just eat by myself then," I hear Devon mutter as he slumps down into the nearest armchair, but I ignore his bruised feelings, instead choosing to follow my mentor down the hall, where to my surprise, she turns into my room instead of her own.

"What-" I begin but she shakes her head.

"Not here." Cashmere pushes open the door and darts inside. I follow, confused.

"Cash, what is going on?" I ask when the door is firmly closed behind me. She looks harried as she seats herself on the bed.

"What did you say to Marvel earlier?" she asks. My mind goes blank for a second before I remember.

"What, before the ceremony? Um…" I hesitate, unsure as to how the news of my blown façade will go over.

"Glimmer…" Cashmere's voice is warning.

"He knows. He knows, okay? Apparently I'm not a good enough actress to fool someone who's grown up hearing rumors about me his entire life. Anyways, we got into it a bit, played some games. The point is, we have an alliance."

"You and Marvel?" Her voice is skeptical as she looks at me with raised brows.

"Yes, me and Marvel," I snap, inexplicably prickly all of a sudden. "Who else do you think, the girl from Eleven?"

"Don't do that," Cashmere growls back just as fiercely. "You are not going to play the sarcasm card here, Glimmer. You and I both know it doesn't suit you."

"No, it doesn't suit my image," I sulk nastily. "An image you've created for me, an image I'll be forced to maintain for the rest of my life if and when I end up winning this!" I make a small screaming noise in the back of my throat and fall back into the heap of freshly laundered pillows, throwing a hand over my face.

"This is ridiculous," Cashmere snorts. "Why are you acting so defensive? I'm just trying to help you out here, Glimmer, and no one knows better than I do what it's like in the arena. Now _tell me about your conversation with Marvel_." Her sentence ends in a low growl.

I bare my teeth at the ceiling for a minute, resisting the urge to throw something before speaking, although I keep my hand firmly draped over my eyes.

"Fine. We chatted it up with Cato and Clove, made some friends, and then headed back to the chariot, at which point Marvel let on that he didn't buy my flirtatious act for a minute. We sort of bantered back and forth for a minute, and eventually, we came to an agreement. We protect each others' backs as long as possible, and when it comes time, we split up, without violence." I reel off the game-changing conversation in as bored a tone as I can manage. I know it will annoy my mentor, and while I know it's petty, I feel like being childish right now.

"Fine," Cashmere replies in a slightly strained voice. "That's fine, Glimmer. Now, will you please sit up and stop acting like a five-year-old?" Without waiting for an answer, she leans over and, grasping my upper arm, pulls me firmly into an upright position. Her brilliant cerulean eyes sear into mine with a precision so sharp, I fight the urge to look away.

"Stupid soul-searching stares," I mutter grouchily, a small smile coming unbidden to my lips as I recall all the times Cashmere's stare has stunned me into such acquiescence. She laughs softly, and I know she's remembering, too. I sigh and grudgingly raise my head to meet her eyes once more.

"I'm sorry," I say steadily, hating the words. Apologies do not come easily to Glimmer Duval.

"No, you're not," Cashmere snorts. "Call a spade a spade, and admit it: you're never sorry for anything, Glimmer." Her voice is considerably lighter now, as she teases me.

"Shut up," I laugh, even though I know she's right. I am far too proud to ever willingly admit I'm in the wrong, and she knows it, having been the one to point out many things I've done wrong over the years.

Cashmere smirks at me as she gathers her long hair in one hand and tosses it back over her shoulder. "Give it up, Glimmer. You know you'll never get the better of me, no matter how hard you try." And it's the truth. She's always one step ahead of me, which is how I know she understands exactly how I'm feeling right now. I'm loathe to admit defeat and break down, but with the stress of being horrifyingly overshadowed earlier this evening and the thought of the arena, and uncertainty, looming over my head, normal behavior goes out the window.

"It is always so in the Capitol," Cashmere says softly. I jolt slightly; I hadn't realized I was speaking aloud. She catches my surprised gaze with her own and nods solemnly, all traces of a smile gone from her flawless features. "Nothing is ordinary here. I remember my own Games, how strange everything felt. I hated it, that feeling of not being in control, for the first time in years."

She directs her gaze steadily on my face. "You know why I volunteered, Glimmer. Much for the same reasons as you. I wanted power, wanted the ability to make my own decisions and live my own life, free of manipulation. And for a time, I found it, training with Lucy…"

I it up, suddenly much more aware. "No way," I breathe in total astonishment. "No way! You never told me you trained with Lucite Lamont!" To be fair, Cashmere has told me precious little about her life before the Games. She always said it wasn't relevant, and after a while, I just stopped asking. Cashmere now nods distantly.

"No, I never told you. But Lucy was like a mother to me. She was the constant force of authority and reason in my life, when otherwise, I might've run totally wild. No parents to speak of, only the Community Home and the factories in my future, if not a life of slums and prostitution. I was just the pretty girl on the edges of society. Unwanted, used. And let me tell you, I didn't do much to make it otherwise," my mentor laughs aloud, her tone vaguely longing, as if wishing she could return to that long-ago time.

I'm spellbound by her words, held sway by this picture of a Cashmere I've never known, one who wasn't beautiful and powerful and a Hunger Games victor. Family, or at least blood, is important in District One. If you aren't from power, you don't just become part of the higher echelons, like my family is and has been for years. It is now that I realize that had Cashmere never won the Games, she might have been just another lower-class girl, probably with a few children. Maybe even one of the many hired hands who clean my father's house and trim his gardens. I am taken aback by the very simple knowledge that had my mentor never won the Games, I might never have known her, might have even considered her to be inferior. And yet, I cannot even imagine doing so, knowing her as I do.

"But Lucy saw something in me. I don't know what. A spark, maybe, something that told her I wasn't just another one of those street girls clamoring for a chance to sell myself for money." Here, Cashmere's voice takes a darker turn, and I'm vaguely unsettled by the change. I want to open my mouth to ask her what's wrong, but before I can speak, she plows on through the dusty years of memories.

"But Lucy was no slouch, and she never let me forget it. You've heard the rumors, Glimmer. She whipped me into shape in no time," she says, her voice wry and lighter once more, and I find myself nodding, my lips curling upward in a tentative smile. Yes, I've heard all the rumors.

Lucite Lamont, a previous victor and one of the most intimidating figures ever to walk the streets of my home district, had a reputation for being hard as granite and a tough customer. She won the 45th Games, a last-minute nail-biter in which she ended up strangling her final opponent to death with her bare hands. A middle-aged, sturdily-built woman with heavily lined gray-blue eyes and a raspy voice from years of inhaling the smoke of imported Capitol drugs, she cut a wide swath through every crowded avenue she traveled.

But what she lacked in charm and charisma, she made up for in prowess. She took on multiple trainees at a time, spent years refining their skills, making them into some of the most formidable warriors our district has ever seen. Under her care, nine young women joined the ranks of victors in District One in eleven years. There's a reason we have more victors than almost any other district, barring Two.

"I trained under her for six years," Cashmere says now, leaning back into the pillows neatly arranged behind her on my bed. "And she taught me everything she knew. How to fight, how to kill, how to climb a tree and swim. Even how to shut off every emotion in my body, to block out something I never wanted to think about again. But what she couldn't teach me was how to handle my fear. She told me that was something I'd have to find on my own." Here, my mentor stares straight at me with blazing blue eyes, her gaze intense yet somehow sad at the same time.

"Yes, Glimmer, even I have fears. No one is perfect, not even a victor. And when I arrived in the Capitol for the first time, I felt much the same as you do now. Confused. Small. Alone."

"Then tell me what to do!" I blurt out. "Because this isn't how I want to be remembered, even if I win these Games. I can't be that girl, not when I've got twenty-three other people all trying to stab me in the back at once." I pause. "Well, twenty-two, I guess, if you trust Marvel's loyalties." Which, I reflect, may not be the most confidence-boosting outlook, considering our earlier spat.

"But see, Glimmer, that's just it. You won't be remembered like that," Cashmere replies fervently, leaning forward to place her hands on my shoulders. "I can't tell you what exactly to do, because everyone handles this in their own way. All I can say is this: I _know_ you, Glimmer. I _know_ who you are, what you can do, maybe even better than you do. You've spent the last four years training your body, but I've spent the last four years training your mind. Or at least trying to," she smirks at me. "You haven't exactly made it easy."

She winks at me, and I want to hit her, but instead, I allow her to push my hair back from my face once more.

"Regardless, I know who you are, Glimmer, and I know that you are strong enough for this. Look how far you've come!" She flings an arm out to indicate the opulently decorated room around us. "You're sitting in the Capitol, and you're here not because your father forced you or bought your way in, but because of _you_, Glimmer. You've gotten yourself here. That's not all me. And I know that no matter how confused or afraid you feel right now, you'll be strong enough to get through whatever comes. Because you're you, and that's just the way you do things.

"You've never given up once in the entire time I've known you. And that's another thing: you've only been training for a few years. The average time it takes to get a tribute arena-ready is six to eight. You've done it in four. If that doesn't tell you something, I don't know what else will." Cashmere's voice is passionate as she looks me in the eye. I don't know what to say, struck dumb for the first time in years. But it doesn't matter. Her words are all that's needed.

Cashmere slides off the bed and onto her feet, still holding my gaze as she prepares to leave. "I'm not going to tell you what to feel," she says in a low, even voice. "But I'll leave you with this: you can give up now, but if you do, you'll never know. Choose to fight on, and you'll see the future. That I can promise." And with those parting words, she slips out the door into the silence of the corridor.

It takes me several minutes to come back to myself, as I'm still trying to decipher and comprehend my mentor's words. My head is reeling as I sink back into the silky covers, drawing them up to my chin and curling up on my side. Thoughts bounce around my skull like tiny bullets, bringing with them not pain but a curious measure of relief, almost like the rush of anesthesia to my veins.

My worries are not gone, not even close, but Cashmere's counsel has given me a new sense of freedom, the freedom to realize that I still have power here, even in the heart of the Capitol. I'm not just a pawn in their Games. I may be a puppet in the greater scheme of things, but I can change that, maybe not tonight, but soon. If I win these Games, which I know in my heart that I can, I'll be my own person. Powerful once more.

It's pitch black in my room when I finally drift off to sleep, but there's a smile on my lips and a tiny ounce of hope in my heart. Training begins tomorrow, and even if the two from Twelve managed to impress the world with their flaming costumes in the Opening Ceremonies, they won't have the assistance of a stylist to help them out when they're facing six Careers with weapons leveled at their chests. The thought is comforting, and I roll over, safe in the promise of a better tomorrow.

A/N

Thanks for reading! Next time, as promised, the beginning of training and some very important revelations for Glimmer… Please remember to review!

-Iri


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**

**It's been a while since I updated. Or at least, it feels like a long time. I've been very busy preparing for my final exams and other various items of consideration, so I apologize. I've also been rather horrible about replying to reviews. My apologies for that as well. I promise, I'm reading them all! Please continue to review if you have done so in the past, and I'll try to respond as quickly as possible.**

**That being said, I hope you all enjoy this next chapter. I've received a few requests to reveal just what "revelations" I promised in the previous chapter. All I can say before you read it is that this does contain some faint (or not-so-faint, depending on how closely you read) spoilers for Mockingjay. Be warned.**

**Other than that, just remember to read on ½ setting, and please review!**

**-Iri**

**P.S. Caisha, I have a feeling you're going to have a lot to say about this chapter… Eeeek. Hope you like my little hints ;) and hope you don't want to kill me when this is over! ;)**

When I make my way to the elevator bay the next morning before training, it is with the calm and collected attitude of the Glimmer Duval the rest of the world knows, not the desperate and confused girl of the night before. If I'm going to get anywhere the next three days, I need to have my game face firmly in place, and that begins right here, right now, especially in my alliance with my district partner.

Marvel and I discussed it over breakfast this morning, and although there was a fair amount of disagreement and several barely-veiled insults thrown back and forth, we eventually found our way to the conclusion that it would be best for both of us to remain in character as long as possible. He will continue to play the part of the arrogant, dominant warrior, although I can only wonder how he'll stand up in comparison to the huge man from Two, and I'm to be the beautiful, seductive girl with a set of skills to match her deadly allure.

Now, as I stand in the foyer, I take a deep breath, squaring back my shoulders and stretching my arms above my head. I'm centering myself when I hear the unmistakable, nearly silent footsteps gracefully striding down the long hallway. I turn to see Cashmere sauntering towards me, her long hair tied up in an intricate and elegant knot, dressed in a siren red, filmy dress embellished with tiny diamonds and an extremely short skirt that shows off more leg than I've ever seen her display outside of the privacy of her own home.

"Wow," I call before she comes to a halt before me. "You look… Capitol. What's going on that I don't know about?" Cashmere rolls her eyes, causing the long diamond and ruby earrings to jingle noisily.

"Unlike you, I've actually got to make an effort to socialize today," she needles me. "Sponsors don't sign themselves up, you know. I'll be in meetings all day."

"I thought that was Devon's job?" I ask curiously. She shakes her head.

"It is, but I think you'll find Devon is only persuasive to a certain aspect of Capitol society. I'm just going to help out with the other half of the demographic." I grimace as I register her meaning. She'll spend the day flirting with potential sponsors, then, a task I expect is distasteful at best.

"Have fun socializing with the unwashed masses," I snort, shaking my head ruefully. "At least you look the part."

"Glimmer Duval, something tells me you'll attract something more than the 'unwashed masses,'" she shoots back in her usual confrontational manner, fiddling with the thin strap of her dress as she redirects the conversation.

I reply incredulously, pretending to be affronted. "Well, I'm sorry, but it's not my fault they seem to have gotten that impression. From what I hear, you and Imelda seem to be scheming to make me out to be the Capitol's favorite new plaything. I may be beautiful, Cashmere, but I do have a higher opinion of myself than that."

I'm teasing her, although there is a hidden note of honesty in my words. When I got out of bed this morning, I had to blink several times before I registered the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed as being my training outfit. It's more conservative than the Opening Ceremonies dress, to be sure, but the low-necked, slightly sheer white shirt and tight-fitting pants certainly do their best to show off as much of my body as possible.

Still, I'm surprised when Cashmere's eyes go curiously flat as she purses her lips in response to my innocent comment. I quirk an eyebrow at the sudden change, but before I can even open my mouth to speak, the flash of something far darker than I've seen from her all morning is gone from her face and she's back to teasing me again.

"Hey, you wanted sponsors. You'll just have to trust me that this is the best way to get them." She punches me lightly on the shoulder. "And think of it this way: the less you have to worry about supplies in the arena, the more time you'll have to focus on getting it on with Cato."

She makes a suggestive gesture with her hands and then laughs out loud as I try to whack her across the head, ducking and dodging away in her sky-high heels. "All right, all right, I get it." She straightens her dress once more before stepping away and looking me up and down.

"Good. You took my advice on the hair." I nod at the subject change, feeling the silky strands graze my cheekbones. I've always hated having my hair in my face while I'm doing anything strenuous, and although I don't think training today will be anything close to what I've been through at home, I'd still prefer to have my hair tied back in my usual ponytail. But Cashmere insisted that I leave it down, for blatant advertising if nothing else, and I have to admit she's right. The easiest way to win friends and influence enemies is firstly through my appearance, and secondly through my skills, much as I'd like to believe different.

I'm saved the energy needed to respond when Marvel makes his entrance, dressed as well in a white shirt and black pants, although his outfit seems designed to make him appear as bulky and masculine as possible. I fight back the urge to shiver as he runs his gaze over me.

"Still advertising, I see," he drawls lazily, stretching his arm across his chest. "Let's get this over with, _Splendor_. I've got a Games to win."

"In your dreams," I reply airily, ignoring his purposeful slur on my name. We may be allies, but Marvel and I still maintain a careful distance, which is just the way I like it. No use in getting close to someone you know will have to die soon, anyways.

"Wait!" Devon calls, and I turn to see him jogging quickly down the hall, clad in one of his usual flamboyant outfits. His inky black shirt, accented with touches of scarlet crystals, hangs open over his pale chest, which I now see is tattooed with various spiraling designs in vivid shades of orange and scarlet outlined with inky black. More Capitol alteration. It's disturbing, to say the least, but if his pretentious showiness helps to win me more sponsors, then I'll keep my mouth shut.

"I just wanted to say good luck today," he breathes, stopping next to Cashmere and the perpetually stoic Onyx, who I hadn't previously noticed because of his tendency to just take up space rather than involving himself in the conversation. He, too, is unusually dressed up, and looks as uncomfortable as I've ever seen him. Strange.

"I just know you'll both make a splash," Devon continues brightly as the clock in the hall strikes nine thirty and the elevator door dings open, right on schedule. The training rooms are officially open now. It's time to go.

I allow Marvel to step in first before planting myself dead center beside him, standing with my feet slightly apart, my posture casual but still upright. First impressions are everything.

"Glimmer," Cashmere calls as the doors begin to close. I meet her eyes and nod in affirmation of what I see there. Stick to the plan, she's saying. I can do that.

The elevator begins the smooth journey down to the lower floors of the Training Centre in silence. My heart beats slowly, evenly, a sharp contrast to the inner sense of excitement I feel. I've been itching to get my hands on these weapons for days. The dresses and makeup may win sponsors, but its strength and skill that win the Games, and having time to practice under the watchful eye of the Gamemakers is something I've been looking forward to.

As the motion of the elevator begins to slow, I take a deep breath and hear Marvel do the same beside me. "Ready for action?" he asks, voice steady and low.

"You better believe it," I respond with confidence, turning to look at him. His brown eyes meet my own and he nods.

"Then let's do this. Remember, District Two is the most important. Four looked halfway decent on the replays, but Two will be the better trained. They're the ones to watch out for."

"Agreed," I say, considering the options. "Tell you what: head for the spears as son as you can. Be intimidating. Let's let them come to us."

The elevator doors slide open, then, and I plaster a small smile on my face as Marvel and I immediately stride forward in unison. Past the screen of palm fronds that mask the foyer, I see the huge room laid out before me.

It's bigger than the gymnasium at school, painted a neutral tone and filled with different stations, all manned by a Capitol instructor. My eyes immediately dart to the sword-fighting station, when I'm pleased to see a wide selection of gleaming weapons just waiting for me to try.

"Welcome to training," rings out a loud female voice. I see a woman dressed in a red uniform standing in the middle of the room. Already, two or three other pairs of tributes have circled around her, among them, the tributes from Three and Four among them.

As I walk farther into the room, I am stopped by a serious-faced man who pins a large number 1 on my back, I suppose so everyone knows who I am, although I privately think I might be a bit hard for them to forget, really. The little girl from Three catches my eye as I look up, her face caught in a tight mask of fear and curiosity. I stare back at her without reservation, my face set in an expression of pure alpha dominance, and she quickly looks down at the ground. Easy.

As Marvel and I join the circle of waiting tributes, I see the pair from Four whispering together. This is my first good look at them. The girl is tall, although not as tall as me, and her long, coarse black hair waves around her shoulders. She's not beautiful, though; her face is strangely angular, her jaw too sharp, her cheekbones too high for traditional beauty.

The boy is much the same; the two could even be siblings, although their surnames are different. Cousins, perhaps? Both volunteers. His dark hair falls in front of his forehead, and his limbs are long and lean, not bulky like Marvel. I think to myself that we could take them, easily.

As I wait with eyebrows raised and arms crossed, the picture of self-assured boredom, the raven-haired boy and girl seem to have reached a decision. Tossing his hair back from his eyes, the boy (Kai, I remember) plants himself directly in front of me.

"Nice to see you, too, District One," he says with a tone of deep contempt. His lip curls slightly as he speaks, and I find myself taking an extreme dislike to this cocky boy who seems to think he is so much better than me.

"Kai," I say calmly, making it clear that I know just who he is.

"Marina and I, we missed talking to you last night. An odd oversight on your part, neglecting to speak with the strongest players in this Career alliance. Could it be you're too afraid?"

"Afraid of what? That your incompetence might be catching?" I reply sweetly, meeting his gaze with a steely one of my own. I can practically hear Marvel's smirk behind me; he knows I'm his better at exchanging verbal blows, at least.

The girl, Marina, tosses back her long hair and gives me an appraising look. "Incompetent? This coming from the girl who looks like she's never worked a day in her life. How good can you be when the only tool you've ever touched is a hairbrush?" Her sea-blue eyes dare me to respond, and I have to resist the overwhelming desire to drop her with a swift punch to the jaw. But I can't. I have to stay in character.

So instead, I saunter forward until I stand a few inches from Kai, who appears determined to hold his ground, as though I'm stupid enough to attack him here and now. Instead, I trail my fingertips lightly across his chest, and then allow them to drift slowly lower, to the firm planes of his stomach, still staring Marina dead in the eyes.

"Oh, don't you worry," I whisper. "You'll see just how wrong you are soon enough." I draw my eyes back to Kai, whose face reflects his apparent internal struggle over whether to slap my hand away or yank me closer. "And I'll see you later," I purr quietly before turning back to my silent district partner. His eyes are full of newfound respect, but he hides it quickly as he catches my gaze.

"I assume you can finish up the logistics here," I say, meaning hammering out the boundaries of the alliance. He nods with an arrogant grin, bringing his knuckles up to crack them menacingly while he stares at Kai, who still wears a dazed expression on his face. Marina looks livid, but wisely says nothing.

"Oh, and Marvel? Do try not to break anything," I laugh haughtily before strolling away. I'm shaking with silent laughter inside, but I keep the small, confident grin on my face as I make my way back to the now much larger group of tributes who have gathered in the center of the room. As I situate myself between the shaking girl from Seven and a plain-looking boy I don't even remember from the reaping replays, the elevator lift dings once more, and I see the pair from Twelve step into the large gymnasium, holding hands once more.

What on earth is their mentor trying to do? Setting them up like this- like friends- will only lead for disappointment for the audience later on- only one tribute can win, it's as simple as that- which means they'll lose sponsors. Being from an inferior district to begin with, they're going to need all the help they can get. But their mentor is a senile drunk, I remember, so maybe this isn't part of a cohesive plan anyways. In which case, the stocky blond boy and the sickeningly thin, dark-haired girl will be lucky to make it past the bloodbath on day one.

The training instructor calls us to order just then and lays out the rules, which basically consist of not attacking other tributes and staying inside the gymnasium until training is over for the day. When she dismisses us to get to work, I immediately head for the sword fighting station. The racks of shining steel swords are a soothing sight.

As I pick up the first few swords, trying to find one that feels balanced in my hand, I breathe an internal sigh of relief. The intensity of the morning, with all the pressure of trying to be intimidating and win allies simultaneously, is wearing on me, and I'm glad for a brief respite to just lose myself in what I'm good at. And for a few glorious minutes, I do just that, weaving about the harried station attendant to bring my sword to his with a sharp clanging sound. I find myself surprised when, during a short break in the action, I see that he is now dripping sweat, red-faced, and breathing ever so slightly heavier than when we began.

The attendant requests a break, and I roll my eyes at his incompetence. Really, there is entirely no point to training the tributes from the Career districts; what can they teach me that I do not already know? But as I glance around the noisy room, I see, with a great deal of satisfaction, that a good deal of the tributes have stopped to watch me with expressions of terror and fear. The girl from Twelve, in particular, seems riveted, her grey eyes wide.

_Yes, that's right_, I think. _You may have some skills, but you won't be able to touch me in the arena_. As I watch, the blond-haired boy from her district comes to speak softly in her ear, and the two of them eventually head off to the knot-tying station, where I watch with distaste as she quickly masters most of the basics. _Better get really good at those knots, because that may be the only way you'll survive more than the first day of the Games, _I think viciously.

The ridiculous "Girl on Fire," as the newspapers are calling her now, cannot be allowed to upstage me any longer, or I'll have no means of gaining sponsors. I know for a fact that the money pooling up in the District One account isn't because of Marvel's good looks and sparkling personality, but sponsors can rescind their votes, and that's not something I'm willing to risk at this stage in the game.

I'm distracted for a few minutes as we break for lunch, the Careers all congregating together around one large round table whilst white-clad Avoxes bring out long carts loaded with bowls of stew and rice. I lazily seat myself in between Marvel and Cato, leaning back on the two back legs of my chair and licking drops of stew from the end of my spoon. My fellow Careers all take their seats as well, and I glance around to see that we are the only ones sitting in a group. No other alliances seem to have emerged, which is actually a bit disappointing. It would make it easier to hunt them all down, at least.

No, I have to correct myself when I notice the pair from Twelve laughing together in the far corner, looking for all the world like a teenaged couple enjoying a leisurely lunch date. At first, I think the emotion is genuine, but then I begin to see through the façade. The smiles are a bit too forced, the conversation stilted, and the laughter too loud. If anything, the girl seems much more uncomfortable with the playacting than her counterpart, who speaks easily and fluidly for much of the lunch break.

I pride myself on being able to read people well, and the skill does seem to be coming in handy. Cashmere and I used to sit on a bench in the center of the square back home and simply watch all the people passing by. She'd pick out two or three people and tell me to analyze their body language. Now, I'm more grateful than ever for the skill as Marina sits down directly across the table, her aqua eyes boring directly into mine with coldly appraising fervor. I force myself to stare back at her, unsmiling and determined not to lose this battle of wills which the girl from Four seems compelled to initiate.

"So, _Glimmer_," she says boldly, making it clear she knows my name and is therefore less likely to underestimate me in the future, "please, tell me about life back in District One. I imagine it must be nice not to have to work a day in your life. Although, I've heard that walking and smiling at the same time can be extremely difficult. I do hope it won't interfere with your chances in the arena."

"On the contrary, _Marina_, it's really not that hard when you get used to it. You've just not had enough practice." I smile winningly, baring my teeth and smirking at her furious expression. "But don't worry, sweetheart. It'll all be over for you soon enough."

"You-"

"Can it, District Four!" Clove snaps, interrupting Marina mid-hiss. "No one wants to listen to you whine for the next three days. Get over it and stop acting like a three-year-old." She flicks a strand of deep brown hair from her shoulder while fixing the black-haired girl with a glare as threatening as… well, as you'd expect from a Career, especially one from Two.

"If you have something even remotely meaningful to contribute to the conversation, then do so, but if not, then you would do well to shut up and try not to irritate the more valuable members of this alliance." I almost laugh out loud upon seeing the expression of horrified rage on Marina's face before she slides it quickly behind her usual contemptuous mask. However, I can still see the sparks of fury in her eyes, and I smirk ever so slightly at her before turning away to listen to Marvel, Cato, and Kai, who all seem embroiled in a conversation- or rather, what appears to be a territorial pissing contest- complete with knuckle cracking and copious amounts of filthy looks and barely-veiled threats.

"Are we done with the male-dominance aspect of this conversation?" I ask, breaking in suddenly, aware of Clove's eyes on my face. "Because we do have a strategy to plan, in case no one's noticed."

"Well done, Glimmer, so you do have a brain," Clove says plainly, dark eyes fixed on mine. But they're not malicious, like Marina's. Instead, she seems to be channeling a message, and I'm receiving loud and clear. She and Cato are in it to win it, and if Marvel and I are too, then we will work together. But the pair from Four is out as soon as possible. And hopefully sooner rather than later.

The rest of the lunch break passes quickly; we discuss plans for the arena, although no one wants to reveal much of their own strategy, obviously, and before long, we are all herded back into the gymnasium for another few hours to hone our skills. I spend a few minutes throwing knives with Clove, during which time we come to a fairly solid understanding that while we may be allies, we are also both girls in a male-dominated Games, and neither one of us will back down if a fight is offered.

I find myself incubating a sort of twisted respect for the petite girl from Two; we have much in common, it seems, and while I'm certainly not going to let her out of my sight in the arena, I'll not be going out of my way to stab her in the back. At least, not right away.

There's also the faint sensation that she's holding something back; aside from her strategy, I mean. Watching her move, it's like she's holding herself in check, and I have to wonder what the deadly tribute from District Two could possibly have to hide.

Before I know it, the three days of training are drawing to a close as I sit in a semicircle of chairs before the doors to the gymnasium, waiting for my name to be called. It's day three, and the Gamemakers are seated on the other side of that door, waiting for me to impress them. Waiting to score me. My hands are trembling slightly, but not from fear. Adrenaline fills my veins as I wait anxiously for my turn.

Marvel's been inside for ten minutes now, so I know I'll be up soon. Cashmere and I went over the plan this morning before breakfast; I'm to stick to my strengths for the most part, but she told me, in very explicit terms, that if I have any other newly-discovered tricks up my sleeve, now is the time to pull them out.

"Glimmer Duval!" the solemn-faced Capitol attendant calls out, opening the large metal door to beckon me inside. I rise gracefully to my feet and, without a backwards glance to Cato and Clove or any of the other tributes filling the lunchroom, make my way through the open doorway. The gymnasium is silent, not echoing with the racket of twenty-four kids all training at once as it has been for the past few days. The only sound I can hear is the dull murmur of one violet-robed Gamemaker whispering to another as I enter the room.

I come to a halt and stand directly in front of the panel of men and women who will determine my future, making sure to stand up straight and tall. Let it never be said that Glimmer Duval is anything but proud.

The head Gamemaker, a large man in an elaborate cape, nods to me, and I bow my head slightly, smiling as I turn to the rest of the room. Game on.

I head first to the spear throwing station, something I've never really had an enthusiasm for but a skill that Marvel has helped me to more fully master in the past few days. Selecting a long, slim spear with a shining steel head, I wind my arm back and with all the strength I can muster, release. The spear flies through the air to slam, point first and quivering, in the neck of the nearest cloth dummy. I can hear the appreciative mutters of the men and women seated behind me, and, encouraged, I repeat this about three or four more times before moving onto first knife-throwing, the hand-to-hand combat station, and finally, sword-fighting.

Here, I can finally stop smiling and faking my way through everything. This is my true area of expertise, and I can feel my face set in a thin line as I leap forward to meet the sword of my opponent. Time fades and blurs together as I duck, twirl, slash and dive, effectively spinning circles around the professional who tries unsuccessfully to fend me off. While he is considered a master here, in this land of candy-pink buildings, where weapons are artifacts in museums, I am the one with true practical experience. I am the expert, the professional, and I am fueled by something more than duty and salary; I have my pride, and my life, on the line.

Within minutes, I slide under his guard and, knocking the fancy silver weapon from his hand, bring the point of my sword to his throat. Silence reigns in the gymnasium, and I lower my arm, breathing only slightly heavier as I lift my chin in victory. With one last bow to the Gamemakers, I replace my sultry smile and, shifting my hips exaggeratedly, carefully brush my hair back over one shoulder so my neck and collarbone are exposed and step lightly from the room.

As the elevator doors slide open on my floor, I am still grinning my face off. I know I nailed my performance, and the feeling of relief is almost overwhelming as I head for the dining room to meet up with the rest of my team. I stop in the doorway to see Marvel, Onyx, Devon, and Cashmere all seated around the wide table, embroiled in a play-by-play discussion of Marvel's time with the Gamemakers. They all look up as I knock on the light wooden doorframe before sauntering in to flop down in a heavily-cushioned chair next to my mentor.

"How'd it go?" Cashmere asks me, tone cautious.

"Fairly brilliant," I reply lightly, helping myself to a chocolate-covered strawberry from the dish in front of me. At this rate, I'll be too fat to run anywhere by the time the Games really begin. "I think it went well. Tossed a few spears, some knives, turned a couple somersaults, whipped the instructor at swordplay… you know the drill."

To my left, Marvel snorts out loud. "And she's modest, too," he sneers, meeting my eyes with a defiance I hadn't expected. However, I know he's only jesting. The smirk on his face tells the truth.

"Shut up, Marvel," I roll my eyes. "How'd yours go, anyway?"

"Absolutely perfect," he replies quickly. "I'm looking forward to seeing those scores."

I think Devon senses the oncoming confrontation, because before I can respond in kind to Marvel's challenging tone, he quickly claps his hands and speaks up in his usual peppy manner.

"Well, that's simply wonderful! We'll have a winner this year, I can just feel it!" he practically bounces from his seat before snapping his fingers to summon several Avoxes, who appear as though drawn from his pocket.

"We're celebrating tonight," Devon announces, looking around at all of us. Onyx looks bored, as usual; Cashmere is leaning back in her chair, stretching out her arms and yawning; Marvel and I remain at the edge of our seats, but the tension in the room is beginning to dissipate.

"What do you all say to an early dinner? I say, how about a full feast?" This last statement is directed at one of the Avoxes, who bows and hurries out of the room, followed by his fellow servants, no doubt to prepare something far too elaborate and heavy for the occasion. And sure enough, when they return in about half an hour, four more white-clad servants also follow, bearing what looks like enough food to feed every tribute in the Games for a week. I can't deny that the fare looks delicious, however, and I find myself devouring everything on my plate before long.

It is while dessert is being served that I sense, for the first time, that not all is right in the District One headquarters. As an Avox sets a small dish of flaky pastry and berries in front of her, Cashmere leans back in her chair, the motion causing her free-flowing hair to shift back off her neck and over her shoulder. My eyes are immediately drawn to the small purple-black bruise, almost circular and located just below her ear; it stands out sharply against porcelain skin. My stomach clenches in disgust as the truth hits me with the force of a speeding train. I glance down to see the imprint of large fingerprints, faintly purple, encircling her wrist where her long tunic sleeve is pushed up.

I have to struggle not to be sick across the dinner spread as my mind comprehends the evidence in front of me with the events of the past few days. Every morning, Cashmere has seen me off dressed in flashy Capitol finery and looking for all the world like she's going out to a trashy Capitol nightclub and not sitting in meetings with potential sponsors.

Nausea twists sharply in my gut as I realize just what has been going on here. It's a struggle to remain blank-faced for the rest of the evening, my mind still reeling. I hardly notice when the scores are announced. Marvel and I each pull a nine, on the high end for Careers, but I can't bring myself to care, not even when the girl from Twelve somehow manages an eleven. Around me, everyone else is squawking with indignation and astonishment, but I observe it all as if from underwater.

I remain in this fogged state for hours, until Cashmere pulls me along the hallway to my room. I seat myself on the bed, still half-asleep, when the most terrific crash brings me to my senses. _What the…?_

I look over at my mentor to see she has thrown a very delicate and highly expensive looking vase to the ground, shattering it into thousands of tiny shards. "What are you doing?" I nearly shriek, still startled.

"Finally," Cashmere groans. "Do you realize you haven't said a word since dinner? What on earth is going on?" Her face is open and confused as she stands, one hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. But how can I give her one? What can I say to her, now that I know this one terrible secret?

"Glimmer?"

"Your wrist-" I choke out hoarsely at last, trying to find some way to explain why my head appears in a different location than my body.

Cashmere's expression doesn't change, but instead remains fixed in place, frozen. She doesn't bother to tug her shirtsleeve down to cover the bruises, and what use would that be, anyways? She just stands there, still looking at me, silent.

"Cashmere, what- I don't- Why?" I'm stumbling over my words now, trying to articulate my feeling of utter horror. "How-"

She finally moves, coming to sit beside me on the bed. She reaches out, puts an arm around my shoulders, squeezes me closer. It's a comforting gesture, but meant for me, and I'm so confused and thrown for a loop that I nearly burst into tears. But I don't think I could if I tried. There's a giant lump in my throat, too big to swallow around, choking me, so for a few minutes, there is only silence.

Then, Cashmere speaks. Her voice is flat, but pleading. "It's not your concern," she says at long last. "This is my business, my choice." Her words are firm, but the emotion behind them falls flat, giving me the ability to find my voice once more.

"Your choice? Are you kidding me?" I shout, thankful for soundproofed walls. "Don't tell me that, Cashmere, just don't! I know you. This isn't your choice, not at all!"

"And it's not yours, either!" She shouts back at me, throat raw and harsh.

"But you're doing it for me, and that makes it my business!" I cry. "I don't care about getting sponsors if this is what it takes! You're not doing this over me, Cash, you're not!"

"But I already have." Her words slice through the air, icy cold and sharp. "It's done, Glimmer. And don't you dare say this is all about you, because it's not. Surprising as it may seem, not everything in this world revolves around Glimmer Duval. In fact, I think you'll find that it turns just as well without you."

I am shocked into silence; wide-eyed, I stare at my mentor, unable to find words. She looks back at me, pale eyes wide, angry, and shining-wet, before she slowly gets to her feet and, without a word, leaves the room.

It takes me a long time to get to sleep that night.

**A/N**

**Please don't kill me! I hope you're not too angry with Cashmere right now, but I know it's pretty likely. I promise I'll explain more in the next chapter. So much as you hate me right now, if you could muster the strength to push the review button and let me have it in that form, that'd be great ;)**

**-Iri**


	7. Chapter 7

***epic length* A/N**

**Another chapter! I'm sad to say, we've reached the halfway point. I'm just about finished pre-writing the rest of the chapters (though I'll still go back and edit as I post the next few), and I'm working on the epilogue as you read this. I'd originally written another epi, but I've since decided it's far too sentimental and mushy to really fit with the guts of the story. Blame me and my silly fluffy tendencies. **

**Anyways, the final (or at least very solid) structure of the story is as follows: twelve chapters with a possible epilogue, which means we are right at the halfway mark with this chapter. I'm going to cry **** Never fear, however; I've already got several plot ideas for other HG stories floating in my brain, so if you have any suggestions or wishes to see a particular bit of writing, shoot me a PM and let me know.**

**Other than that, read on! Remember to review and read on ½ setting please!**

**-Iri**

Breakfast the morning following my confrontation with Cashmere is a solemn affair; no one really appears up to saying much. Actually, I think that's just the two of us. Marvel seems plenty amiable, constantly finding a way to slip his training score into the conversation. It's irritating to the point that even Devon tells him to can it, although in much nicer terms than I would use. Somehow, my brain-to-mouth filter seems to be mysteriously missing. For instance, before our arrival in the Capitol, I would never have dared to scream at Cashmere so as I did last night.

I wince even thinking about it; it was poorly handled. But somehow, I can't bring myself to regret my words, shouted through tears and plain, cold fear. I think of her as my older sister in every way but blood, the guide and guardian I never had as a small child, besides Rivet, who at that time was far too young to properly defend or raise me. But Cashmere has been such a fixture in my life for the past four years that our bond is something I hold sacred.

I had always been sure to maintain a safe distance, treating her with respect and all that comes with her station as a victor. Cashmere has never been one to show any extraordinary amount of emotion; she's not the touchy-feely type, and I cannot even begin to recall a single instance where I would have ever dared to so openly contradict her on such an emotional level.

But I'm not sorry for it. Much as I want to win these Games- and that's quite a bit, considering the only other outcome results in my death- I refuse to condemn my mentor to a type of servitude the likes of which I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy.

Which is why, after the breakfast dishes have been cleared away and only she and I remain seated at the dining room table- Devon is off to who knows where, and Marvel and Onyx are engrossed in their own strategy session in the television room- I take a deep breath, swallow my pride and raise my eyes to meet hers.

"I wanted to apologize for my actions last night," I begin, and almost end. My voice sounds hoarse and forced, a far cry from my usual confident tone. But I plough on; this must be done.

"I did not intend to offend you in any way. I just-" And this is where my voice breaks off, because I am suddenly floundering in the depths of my own emotions, unsure where to even continue next.

"Do not apologize," she says in a tone as crisp and firm as ever. "While I maintain that it is my business and not yours how I choose to use whatever assets are available to me-" I wince at her choice of words, but she ignores me-"I also understand your concern." Cashmere crosses her long bare legs, exposed under the sheer expanse of a flimsy white dress, under the table and shifts her weight, unconsciously scratching at a small mole on her left shoulder as she purses her lips.

"And I must say this: while I do not, as you so astutely guessed last night, _enjoy _partaking in such actions, I need you to understand that I do this not for my own benefit but for yours, and for others' as well. If placing myself in this position will help to ensure your victory, as well as… other topics of some delicacy," she says carefully in response to my sharp glance, "I will do it in a heartbeat, and you need to understand that this is how it shall always be.

My throat is tight and constricted by the time Cashmere has finished her speech. I have to swipe under my eyes before any of the hot tears gathered can betray me and fall. However, it is not guilt or sadness that currently overwhelms me; it is confusion. My mentor is always concise, blunt, never pulling punches and saying exactly what she means. And on the surface, that is exactly what it appears she has done here. To anyone else, I'm sure it would seem so. But I know her better than almost anyone else, and I can tell she's holding something back. Something big.

It's like fitting together a puzzle, the kind where you think you know what the picture's supposed to be and yet you have that sneaking suspicion that you're dead wrong. All the pieces are slowly fitting together, but there're still some missing, and without them, I know I'll never be able to finish putting the picture together.

Cashmere is still waiting for a response, and I intuitively know that, at least for now, the discussion is closed. Better to let her think I have accepted her story for now. If her guard is up, it'll make it much more difficult for me to figure out what's really going on.

No, I decide, there are some things better kept to myself. So I plaster a teary-eyed smile on my face, trying my hardest to keep my frenzied thoughts from showing in my eyes. "I'm sorry," I say carefully. "It was not my place to pry, and I understand that you must make your own decisions." _I just wish you'd let me in on them, especially when they concern me,_ I add silently in my head.

"Thank you, Glimmer," she says with a wry smirk. It's more subdued than I'd hoped, as if she suspects I've not totally accepted her story, but she lets it go, speaking with a faintly joking tone that lowers the tension in the room to a manageable level.

"Shall we return to the topic at hand?" she says. "That is, your interview. I imagine you're waiting with bated breath to hear what I have to say about your angle."

At this, I let out a large, rather obnoxious snort. "Oh, right. You know me, Cashmere, I'm just dying here waiting to hear what asinine response I've got to memorize next. Whatever will I say when Caesar asks me if I've got a boyfriend at home?"

Cashmere laughs, throwing her head back and shaking out her hair before grinning brightly at me. "I don't need to coach you on that one. I expect you'll do what you've always done and tell him to go suck on it." And then we are both laughing, so hard it takes a full five minutes to recover enough to pull ourselves upright and soothe our aching sides. And then we make the mistake of meeting each others' eyes and dissolve all over again.

It feels good to laugh, though it's a faintly hysterical laugh, the kind of laugh you maintain when the situation you find yourself in is not an entirely comfortable one. But it still feels good to release at least some of the anxiety I still hold inside me. My mentor is hiding something, something important, and while she may think she can hide it from me, she's wrong. I've made up my mind. When I win the Games, she won't be able to deny me anything. I'll be a victor with the same rights and privileges, and I won't let her deflect my questions again.

The next day, I'm still fairly quiet as Irene and company try to wrangle my hair into submission. I slept with it tied up in a knot last night, and as a result, the curls are now tangled in a mass that rather resembles a large hedgehog nesting atop my head. But they can't simply force me into the shower, as my makeup is already done and has been pronounced "simply flawless" by my stylist.

So, with copious put-out looks and moans about the effort of it all, Irene reluctantly tackles the problem with a hairbrush and a massive bottle of something musky-smelling. The motion of her brushing my hair is strangely soothing, and I begin to drift off into that land halfway between awareness and dreams. By the time I'm roused once more, it's less than an hour before the live interview broadcast begins, and it's time to get dressed.

This time, Cashmere is present as Imelda hurries into the room, heels clacking on the cold stone floor as she reverently lays the pristine white garment bag down on a nearby chair.

"Just wait until you see it!" she squeals in a tone I'm sure would shatter windows, if there were any in this entirely nature-less room. "Oh, Irene has absolutely outdone herself this time!" At this, my usually reticent stylist blushes a furious shade of electric blue and giggles aloud before unzipping the bag with a flourish. But before I can register the suspiciously small mass of gold cloth laid out before me, a large pink hand quickly whisks itself over my eyes.

"Wait! Don't let her see it until it's on!" Raphael hisses loudly. I have to grit my teeth to keep from ripping his hand away and grabbing the dress- or whatever it is- from his overeager grasp. But I manage to restrain myself as something constructed of a strangely lightweight and almost airy material is slipped over my head. There's a moment of furious rustling and several whispers. Then:

"Okay, open your eyes!" And the hand is lifted away.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the artificial lighting. Then, as the black spots on my vision blur away to nothing, I feel my mouth fall open as I stare dumbfounded at the girl in the mirror.

_You've got to be kidding me_, I think faintly as I raise a hand to touch the glass. The dress- if it can be classified as such- appears to be made of an entirely sheer material, shimmering gold and high-necked, covering the top of my collarbone. But modest as the neckline appears to be, the rest of the garment is anything but. It's scandalously short, even by Capitol standards, and nearly see-through. The only thing preserving what little modesty I have left is the large amount of brilliant crystals and glittering sequins which are clustered in what I suppose Capitolians would consider artistic shapes around my chest and hips.

The whole effect is completely and utterly shocking. I find myself wondering whether this getup will offend even the Capitol audience, but then I remind myself that this is the same contingent that routinely watches children paraded naked through the City Circle on opening night- and considers their impending deaths a great source of entertainment value- and the thought is banished.

But it certainly offends me.

"Are you kidding me?" I spin around, almost frothing at the mouth. "I can't go out onstage like this!"

"Well, why not?" Irene asks, offended.

"Are you blind?" I shriek. "I'm practically naked!" I jerk my head to look at Cashmere, who until now has been suspiciously silent. "Cashmere, tell them. I can't go out there like this, I can't!" My voice is high-pitched and I sound like one of the whiny starlets on the Capitol soaps, but I'm past caring, considering I'm about to be presented nearly naked on national television.

But as I look at Cashmere, she avoids my gaze. "What?" I shout. "You're not seriously suggesting I wear this... this rag!" She still doesn't look at me. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "Cashmere! Have you lost your mind? I'm a lot of things, but if you think I'm going out on national television dressed like a whore, you're mistaken!"

Cashmere snaps her head up to look at me with blazing eyes. "Stop shouting," she says coolly, and I feel the temperature in the room drop instantly. Her face is closed off, a slab of finely chiseled stone, and I unconsciously shrink back a bit. I haven't seen my mentor respond so strongly to anything since… a long time ago. It's enough to render me temporarily speechless, which is well enough, because it's at this moment that Cashmere stands up stiffly from her seat and, her every movement forced and controlled, comes to stand directly before the small platform on which I stand.

"If you insist on dissolving into hysterics every time something displeases you, Glimmer," she says in a voice that could freeze a raging fire into icicles, the same voice she used two nights ago when I accused her of not trusting me, "then you needn't even bother stepping out on that stage tonight."

I can only gape at my mentor. I cannot even begin to fathom what in my words has affected her so. I thought we'd reached a point of peace yesterday, but it appears I was wrong.

"Cashmere, I-"

She cuts me off, eyebrows narrowed dangerously. "You will wear what you have been instructed to wear, you will follow my instructions to the letter, and you will not argue like a simple child. The dress is essential to your costume, or have you forgotten so easily the plan I constructed? I've spent years preparing tributes for the Games, Glimmer, and I've no patience to sit around being instructed by a girl with less practical experience than a Capitol schoolchild."

I'm struggling to hold back tears as my mentor speaks, her words cutting and her face frozen in a mask of anger and bitterness. Cashmere has _never_ spoken to me like _this_, not when I've made a mistake, not even the time I nearly beheaded Gloss when I let go of my sword accidentally. No, this is entirely new, and totally inexplicable.

"Now, if you're finished with your temper tantrum, I'd suggest you start thinking about what you're going to say when you get up on stage rather than worry about whether or not you feel like a princess in your dress." Cashmere looks over at Lorena and Irene, who wear twin expressions of utter boredom on their faces. "Finish getting her ready; the dress will do."

"Well, of course it will!" Lorena snaps in a rather affronted voice. "We spent all night getting it ready. I haven't been so deprived of sleep since… I don't even know when!" She throws up her hands and moans as if to express the depth of her exhaustion. No one appears moved. Cashmere gives the style team one last brittle nod and, without another glance in my direction, stalks out the door.

"At last," Raphael sighs, coming forward with a small bottle of spray-on glitter clutched in his dainty fist. "I swear, the districts seem more backwards every year."

"Shut up!" I snarl under my breath, still trembling slightly with anger. But my voice is too low for the sound to carry, and I am forced to simply bite my lip in exasperated rage as my prep team flocks around me to put the finishing touches on my practically nonexistent costume. By the time I'm able to unclench my teeth and breath normally, I'm being hustled into the elevator that will take me downstairs, to where I will once again have to use my wits to survive in the battle of mental tenacity that makes up the preparation for the Games.

_Think, Glimmer, relax. Relax!_ My brain is whirling, and I have to take several deep breaths before I can begin to categorize the events of the last hour. _Might as well not even step out onto that stage… less practical experience than a Capitol schoolchild… _My mentor's words echo crazily though my mind and I squinch up my face and shake my head to clear it, ignoring Imelda's panicked warning about messing up my hair, which has been carefully styled so that it looks exactly as it always does. I debate snapping back that I could have done this myself with much less time and energy. _Forget that, just focus. Focus. You're about to go onstage, you have to focus._

But I can't get Cashmere's words out of my mind. Hot shame and rage fill me as I consider them. My mentor, a woman I've looked up to for years, basically just told me in very plain terms that I was in no way capable of winning the Games without holding her hand every step of the way. My cheeks burn and I am fervently glad for the darkness outside the elevator, because it at least prevents the ever-present photographers from catching a glimpse of my reddened face.

_I'll show her,_ I think fiercely. Rivet always said that my pride was my biggest flaw, warned me about how I could never admit I was in the wrong. But here, I know that my mentor is wrong. I know I can do this. I am Glimmer Duval, and I have spent my entire life training for these Games. I have to believe I can do this, or it will all be for nothing.

A tiny part of me still screams denial, but I force it back to the deepest corner of my head and lock it away, tight. There is no place for weakness, not tonight. This is Interview Night, and I will shine as brightly as ever. Even brighter. I will show the world that I am just who I say: a brilliant, dangerous, and deadly woman, ready to take on the world. Forget the humiliation of the dress, the makeup, the catcalls, the whispers, the stares, the assumptions. Forget it all.

The elevator doors swing open with a chime, and without hesitation, I stride out. The area backstage is chaotic and loud as Capitol officials rush about with clipboards, trying to get everyone in line as large screens display a running countdown until the broadcast officially begins. I see Marvel already waiting at the front of the line, doing his best to frighten the two children from Three to death. Smiling, I slowly make my stunning way across the small room to come to a stop at his side. _Focus._

"Ready, then?" I ask him with a winning smile. I have the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen and his face go slack for a moment as he takes in the non-dress, but then he recovers and throws me a smirk that says he isn't fooled, he knows I'm still the same girl underneath the layers of sparkle and makeup.

"Oh, I'm ready," he says in a arrogant tone. "Whether these two are, remains to be seen." He gestures behind him to where the pathetically skinny girl and boy from the technology-manufacturing district stand as if glued to each others' hips.

At his words, they jump slightly and, barely glancing at me, do their best to simultaneously shift as far away as possible. Marvel laughs, a cold, arrogant laugh, and I join in, not really liking this sport of cruel intimidation, but knowing it is necessary. It's not as if these two have any chance at victory anyways.

Cato and Clove come to join us at the front of the line, and we exchange terse greetings before the uniformed officials all seem to congregate at the head of our procession. I can hear a chanted countdown echoing out from onstage, and I tilt back my chin, trying to quell the sudden rush of butterflies in my stomach. _It's no big deal, _I tell myself_, just acting. At least I get to go first. I can get it over with and then relax._ I summon Rivet's face into my mind, holding it there for a moment. _This is for you, brother._

And so, as the countdown reaches zero and we begin to process onstage, I am smiling from ear to ear and feeling almost as on top of the world as I did the morning of the reaping. The cheers of the crowd only serve to fuel my confidence as I wave on the way to my seat, at the far end of the semicircle of chairs. I see Caesar Flickerman, the head of interviews for as long as anyone can remember, commanding attention from the center podium, his hair and lips glowing bright powder blue. It's a grotesque look, but it reminds me of the wide open sky over District One, and I find myself grateful for the color change. Another tie to home, and therefore myself.

Caesar jokes about for a few minutes, garnering laughs and catcalls from the rowdy audience, and then I am called forward. Keeping my now-signature seductive smile firmly in place, I strut forward on impossibly tall heels to seat myself next to the ancient interviewer, forcing myself not to tug on the ever-rising hemline of my hateful dress. Caesar bows his head with a grin and we shake hands before he turns back to the microphone.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we can say the first interview is a hit already!" he calls, and another onslaught of cheers emanates from the excited crowd of Capitol citizens crammed into the stands. I wink and wave airily to the audience as if I find their attentions even the slightest bit pleasing and Caesar has to shush them once more before he can even get a word in over the roar.

"Now, Glimmer," he says, "tell me about yourself. You've received a great deal of attention here in the Capitol. I can imagine you get just as much at home in District One, am I right?"

"Oh, yes," I sigh breathily, deliberately extending and then re-crossing my legs, which have been covered in a rather distracting shimmery gold bronzer. "It's all a bit overwhelming at times, being here, but you know Caesar, I feel almost perfectly at home in the Capitol already. Everything is just so beautiful!"

Caesar smiles and gestures out at the huge building with one bright white hand. "And what better place to call home. A fitting match, don't you think? A beautiful home for a beautiful girl, I say." I laugh and lean forward as if to whisper in his ear conspiratorially.

"I don't know, Caesar, I don't think everyone seems to feel the same way." I look very pointedly at my fellow tributes, my gaze coming to rest on Clove's face in particular. "I don't know if the same can be said for others here. I just hope they won't feel too comfortable in the arena, either." _Listen to _that_, Cashmere._

There is an audible rise in the murmuring of the audience members. Caesar actually laughs aloud before patting me on the back. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think it's safe to say there's more to this girl than just her face! Fighting talk, and you just sixteen years old. How does it feel to know that, should you not be returning home in a few weeks, you'll only have lived for those sixteen short years?"

Here, I have to take a deep breath before responding. I'm almost convinced Caesar is trying to sabotage me here, but I know he's generally not the type.

"Personally, Caesar, I don't even feel the need to give it much thought at all," I say confidently. "Why worry about things that will never come to pass? And besides, I'm sure many of the people here tonight will be _very _glad to see me when the crown is placed on my head." To accentuate my sickeningly suggestive words, I casually raise my arms above my head and arch my back, pretending that I'm stretching whilst really displaying my body to greater advantage. The tactic works, as several more whoops and catcalls quickly follow. I laugh out loud and pretend amusement as Caesar chuckles and shakes his head.

"Ah, the wiles of the District One ladies," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Something tells me you're not just talking here, Glimmer. I, personally, cannot wait to see what happens in the arena tomorrow." With that, the three-minute buzzer rings out, signaling the end of my interview, and I rise to blow a few final kisses to the crowd.

"With that, ladies and gentlemen, our first interview is over, and may I be the first to wish a very big good luck to Glimmer Duval, the female tribute from District One!" He shakes my hand with a large smile as I wave to the cheering crowds of brightly decorated people before walking back to take my seat, sweet success humming deliciously through my veins.

The following interviews pass by in a haze of both disbelief and pride. I somehow cannot connect the fearless, flirtatious girl seen on the screens with myself, but then again, maybe that's best. Marvel remains his usual arrogant, camera-ready self, and I nod with appreciation as it becomes clear that we will be among the frontrunners in the betting, barring any new surprises. Cato and Clove play the brutality card, as is generally expected from District Two, and I know they'll be right up there in the sponsorship race, considering they both scored tens in training. I lean forward to watch Kai and Marina, anticipating maybe a little something more engaging than the rest, but I'm disappointed. They try to pull off the vicious approach, but are unable to fully put up the mask.

The rest are a jumble of tears, shouted proclamations of strength, and attempts to be wily, silly, charming, intimidating, and even sexy, although I nearly laugh aloud when the girl from Ten tries to copy my angle. She's quite pretty, in an average, sun-streaked sort of way, but she lacks the charisma to pull off my air of confident seduction, and I know it won't do her much good in the arena. I am still the shining star.

No, the rest of the interviews are distinctly boring; that is, until we come at last to District Twelve. You can almost hear the intakes of breath as Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, appears in a bejeweled frock that makes her look like a phoenix rising. I'm a little worried, that is, until she starts talking. The only thing of substance in her interview is the bit about her sister, but the rest is all a drabble of shallow comments and lackluster appeals to the audience.

I know the Capitol viewers will eat it up and call her adorable, but I'm once more reassured in the fact that this surprisingly high-profile girl from the coal mining district will not be too much of a threat, even if she did score an unheard-of eleven in training. How on earth she managed it remains a mystery, but I can say with confidence that at this point, it doesn't much look like that eleven's going to help her chances tomorrow morning.

Then, everything falls apart, or more accurately, is blown apart with the force of an atomic bomb.

All is going well until Caesar asks the usual question: Does the blond boy from Twelve have a girl waiting for him at home? I'm not even paying attention, hardly, too busy indulging my vindictive side and imagining the look on my mentor's face when I am crowned victor. And then he says it, that fateful proclamation.

He is in love with his district partner.

Or, more accurately, he _says_ he is. From the plethora of sighs and horrified screams echoing around the hall, I'd say a good portion of the audience, at least, believes him, but as I look around at the faces of the other tributes, I don't see belief on their faces. Most of them are bored, or shocked, as if they are just now realizing, as am I, that any chance of gaining more sponsors has just been vaporized into dust. Clove, for some reason, seems particularly affected, leaning forward in her seat and looking for all the world as if she's going to leap from her chair and attack him right there, although I cannot imagine why, considering that District Two rarely relies on sponsors in the Games.

As for me, my walking-on-air feeling is long gone, to be replaced by a sensation of pure rage and, to my disgust, fear. With his fictitious love story, the frowning blond boy has single-handedly destroyed any chance of my retrieving any last minute sponsors from the crowd. As fury fills my limbs, I try my hardest to keep my face a mask of boredom and superiority, but it's an uphill struggle when all I want to do is scream, or possibly throttle the boy until he can't speak again. With one sentence, he has both condemned me. I am enraged.

As the anthem plays and we all trot obediently offstage, I seethe inside, fists clenched against my thighs. This is unbearable. I can't even believe it.

We shall see who has the support of the people when we're in the arena. Suddenly, tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

**A/N**

**What'd you think? Remember to review please **** Also, I'm extremely apprehensive about posting the next chapter, as it's very non-canon in parts… so please continue with an open mind, okay? Great!**

**-Iri**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N**

***hides nervously...***

**OK, so I can tell you right now that this one's fairly AU, at least the way most people think about it, but I personally don't think it's all that "out there," so to speak. You'll see what I mean as you read. Anyways, I've gotten some comments from readers about how my Glimmer is not "the typical Career," and I just wanted to put out there that I do not intend to make her one. I think that every story has another side, and that's why I started writing NSG, because I decided that certain characters got a bad rap. So please, have an open mind, and I hope you enjoy!**

**-Iri**

**p.s. Caisha- I'm glad you liked my Clove reference in the last chapter- that one's for you!**

Hot steam rises all around me, clouding my vision and hiding the rest of the room from my blurry eyes. Streams of scalding water pour over my shoulders and down my back, scented with the barest hint of an early spring rain. I feel as though I'm being erased, melted down into an unrecognizable form. It's an almost cathartic sensation.

I'm sitting, arms curled around my knees, in the bottom of the shower. The heat is turned up all the way, and I know when I get out, my skin will have turned a bright shade of pink with the warmth. But I don't care; the temperature gives me something to think about other than what I know will happen in less than twelve hours. At this time tomorrow, night will be falling on the arena for the first time.

I picture myself alone in the vast landscape; a dark and terrifying jungle, a dank, miserable cave, even a barren desert where we will have to fight for every ounce of water. I would give almost anything to know where exactly I'm headed, but no such luck. Instead, I can only make out a foggy sort of horizon in the distance as I envision myself running for my life, the entire Career alliance close on my heels. Unlikely, I know, but possible.

I may be one of them, but it won't take much, I don't think, for any and all ties we've formed to be broken. The Alliance this year is unstable, weak; with everyone fighting for the leadership role, there's no telling what could happen.

I don't know how long I sit there for, imagining worse and worse scenarios, before the hot water finally begins to peter out. It could have been hours. My fingers and toes are wrinkled as I step out to dry myself with one of the many provided towels before dressing for bed. Despite the heat of my extended shower, I'm shaking with cold as I clamber beneath the covers.

_If only the other tributes could see me now_, I laugh humorlessly. My reputation would be thoroughly destroyed, that's for sure. They might actually figure out that the Career tributes aren't all invincible. Not this one, anyway.

My mind keeps returning to the day of the reaping, and my brother's final words. _Never say goodbye. _For my entire life, I've thought them law, holy writ, but now, I'm not so certain. When faced with death, can I really be as brave as I wish? It doesn't appear so, because I'm pretty sure that no one, upon catching sight of me cowering in my bed, would ever call me brave.

The revelation disgusts me and I swipe angrily at my watery eyes, furious at my weakness. This is not how a proper tribute should act. _It looks like Cashmere was right,_ I berate myself miserably. _Better be prepared for the taste of cold steel, Glimmer._

Every sense in my body ratchets up to high alert as I hear the faint rush of air that precedes the opening of my bedroom door. Sure enough, it whooshes open seconds later, and I see, not my mentor, as I had half expected- and even hoped for- but to my great surprise, Marvel.

He steps through the doorway and the door shuts behind him; plunging my room into darkness once more. I can see only his silhouette, a tall and muscular shadow looming in the dark of the room.

"If you're here to try for a few more minutes of intimidation, I'm afraid you'll find such tactics useless. I'm more than equipped to simply ignore you all night," I say far more confidently than I feel. Marvel steps forward into the faint light thrown on the floor by the reflection of the moon on the glass of my window. His hair is disheveled, and he, too, is clad in nightclothes, his feet bare.

"I'm not here to strike fear into your heart, Glimmer," he says quietly. "Although I'm flattered you'd think me capable."

I sit up in bed. "Then what do you want, Marvel? In case you were blissfully unaware, we will be entering an arena in less than twelve hours. And I, like most rational individuals, would prefer to get at least a few hours of sleep before I'm woken at some ungodly hour by yet another idiotic Capitol representative."

"Oh, really?" he challenges. "Then why aren't you asleep already? It's past midnight, plenty late enough for you to have fallen asleep hours ago if you were as at ease as you pretend. Yet there's a fresh towel on the floor and steam is still pouring out of the bathroom. Have you taken to showering in your sleep, then?" His voice is mocking, yet still carries that curious tone of almost disturbing quiet.

"So I took a shower. What does that matter to you? And for that matter, how did you get in here? I thought you had to have the door code?"

He holds up a scrap of paper; squinting, I can barely make out a few digits of scribbled code. "Your mentor gave it to me," he replies calmly.

"Why?" My voice is accusatory, and, I think, for good reason. I cannot think of a possible reason for Cashmere to have allowed my reluctant ally to come anywhere near me, especially tonight, when minds will be ripe for the picking, so to speak, and after our explosive disagreement before the interviews.

_Of course, considering what she really thinks of your chances, it may be she just decided Marvel was a more worthy tribute to back,_ I shudder. Then, I have a desire to shake my head furiously. _No, Cashmere would never. She was angry, that's all. She was just angry. About what, I don't know, but she would never abandon me… Would she? _

My frame of mind in deterioration, I only barely return to the present to hear my partner's reply.

"Because I asked," Marvel says quietly, and I see him slowly fold his legs under himself and sit down, leaning against the far wall.

"What?" my voice is too loud in the darkness, and I wince at the volume. But none of this is making any sense, and my irritation is beginning to grow.

My district partner looks at me with some consternation, his dark brows knitted together. "Why do you think, Glimmer? How about for the same reason you just gave? We'll be in the arena in less than half a day. And you're made of stone if you're not feeling what every other kid in this building is feeling right now." His voice is frustrated, almost biting.

"I'm talking about fear here, Glimmer. And if you can honestly tell me you're not afraid, then you can be the one to go give the code back to your mentor, because I had to explain all this to her before she would give it to me, and I'm pretty sure she knows you better than I do. You might think you're hiding it well, but we both know that our mentors understand us better than we do ourselves."

His words hang in the silence for a minute as the clock over the mantelpiece ticks the seconds away, counting down every second of life remaining for many of the twenty-four gathered in this giant frame of steel and glass. With each tick of the long hand, twenty three other teenagers just like me draws nearer and nearer to their death.

"Yes," I whisper into the darkness. "I am afraid." And I am, though it feels strange and almost counterintuitive to admit it out loud.

"So am I," he murmurs as he settles himself, cross-legged, on the floor and leans against the end of my bed. "I never thought I'd be afraid, but here we are, and look at me now." Marvel's voice is faintly incredulous, but mostly emotionless as he runs a hand through his hair, bleached pale by the moonlight.

"Me either," I admit hesitantly. He nods, and glances over to look up at me, dark eyes flashing.

"I mean, we've spent all these years training, and we never once think that we won't be the strong ones when we end up in the arena. Never once, in seven years of training with Onyx, did the thought of being afraid ever even register in my brain. Look at me, Glimmer."

He gestures with one hand, and I follow the movement to really look, for the first time, at his body. He's tall and, while lean, he's whipcord strong, with arms powerful enough to lift hundreds of pounds or snap a neck where he stands.

"You see?" Marvel asks. "You and I both know that our emotional state doesn't matter to anyone in the Capitol. All they want is the blood and guts, the violence and the thrill of the fight. And we give it to them. We spend half our lives training our bodies to kill, and we think we'll never have to worry about anything else, because once we win the Games, once we kill that last opponent, we can do what we like. But do you realize, Glimmer, that once we get there, neither of us will know what to do?

"We talk about what we're fighting to escape from, but we never think about the fighting itself, or the time after. And now that we're being forced to look at it for the first time, we don't even know where to begin. And what happens if we don't win? I don't know about you, but I never even seriously considered the idea before we boarded that train. Now, it's all I can think about."

Marvel's voice remains whisper-soft, so quiet I have to strain to hear him, but the clear frustration is a veritable slap in the face. I don't know how, but my far-from-eloquent and victory-oriented partner has managed to completely disarm every defense I'd put in place against him. His every emotion, laid raw before me, is mirrored in my own heart.

"Anyways, you can ignore me if you want," he says after a few seconds. "I just didn't want to be alone tonight." And it is this statement, so baldly placed before me, that removes the lump from my throat.

"You're right," I whisper, feeling every shred of the image I'd so carefully fabricated fall away. "I never thought I'd feel one moment of doubt, but now… I don't know." Here, I shift, pulling the blankets tighter around my shoulders before getting out of bed to sit at Marvel's side. His face is surprised, but I just lean back against the thick wooden headboard.

It's strange, being that less than a week ago, I was more than prepared to end the life of the boy sitting next to me without a second thought, and he mine, but yet here we are, sitting in comfortable silence in my bedroom the night before we are to enter the arena. We don't talk much, as the minutes drag on, but there is the occasional anecdote about various memories from home.

I tell him about Rivet, how he is my closest friend, and he talks for a while about his younger sister and his mother, both of whom suffer from one of the many diseases that seem to constantly plague the frailer of our district. We don't talk about the arena; there is no mention of the Games, not tonight, at least. Instead, we tell each other about our hopes, our dreams, our childhoods. Anything we want to remember.

I talk about Cashmere, how she has become like a sister to me, and he admits it is the same for him with his own mentor. Silences stretch every now and then, comfortable and easy as breathing, followed by long stretches of chatter about the most inconsequential things.

It is during one of these conversations that I mention a childhood crush, a boy by the name of Quartz, and my brief two-week obsession with him back when I was thirteen or so. Marvel laughs out loud at this as I describe how I once sent him an anonymous love note, signed "An Admirer" in poorly disguised print, and then managed to put it in the wrong mailbox.

"What happened to it?" he asks, holding his side and gasping for air. I laugh and rub a hand over my face.

"I don't think Quartz ever found out, but Rivet told me later that the house I sent it to belonged to some elderly man with about six cats. I imagine he probably got very excited, thinking he had a secret admirer somewhere." I snort at the thought. "Let me tell you, all those fantasies of kissing Quartz behind the gym were pretty much gone the second I realized what happened."

"Oh, that's priceless," Marvel chuckles. "I can see it now: the famous Glimmer Duval, seducing the elderly population of District One. I bet you were quite the hit at those retirement dinners."

"Shut up!" I shove him in the side as I laugh even harder.

"Seriously, though," he says, "you've never kissed a guy before?"

"No," I reply, my side still aching as I attempt to control myself.

"What a reputation, all going to waste," Marvel grins widely. "The way you act, you'd think every guy in District One was your bedfellow. Imagine what the Capitol would think if they knew their precious seductress was really just a sixteen year old girl after all?"

"Oh, like you've been going around kissing every girl in District One?" I retort, whacking his shoulder. "But I've never really thought about it," I then say honestly. "My whole life, I've been the pretty one, and I guess no one ever bothered to think of me otherwise. When I started training, it became pretty clear that no one would take me seriously anyways, and that using what assets I have would be the smartest way to get ahead.

"Why does it matter, anyways? I thought we'd established that my body was more than adequate to sway the hearts and minds of the Capitol audience?" My voice is teasing, and I waggle my fingers at him jokingly, but to my surprise, his face remains somber.

"I just think… if we're both going into the arena, obviously only one of us is possibly going to leave alive. And neither of us knows who that's going to be. So why waste what little time we have left?" He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. "Why not experience everything we can, before it's too late?"

I freeze, realization flooding through my veins as his words register. I'm torn, unsure of what to do as uncharacteristic heat paints my cheeks. In many regards, I am far more mature than any other my own age, but in this, I am lost.

"I'm not stupid enough to think there's anything romantic between us, and I don't mean for this to be any more than what it is," Marvel whispers. "I just think that you should have the chance to experience this, just once, before everything changes forever." And then his lips capture mine.

For a split second, I consider jerking away, but I'm caught up by the feeling of his lips, warm and softer than I'd thought they would be, moving gently against my own, and I give up on reason and decide to just go with the flow. So I kiss him back, wandering further into uncharted territory, into a place I've never been and may never go again. There's no rush of heat, of overwhelming passion as I'd thought there would be, no desire present in this kiss. It's soft, gentle, the embrace of a friend rather than the heated passion of a lover.

After a few seconds, we break apart. I find myself staring directly into his eyes, deep grey and calm. We're both a little breathless, but not gasping for air. Simultaneously, we both move a few inches away and resume our former positions, leaning side by side against the end of my bed.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Marvel says finally. "I just thought you'd want to know... since you didn't get the chance with Quartz." He teases me, poking at my side. I turn to look at him, contemplative.

"No, it's fine," I say quietly, still reeling a bit. "You're right."

"About what?"

"Everything, I guess," I say, turning to face him once more. "I'd have wanted to feel that, just once, if I knew I was going to die. Which I'm not, by the way," I add hurriedly.

"Well, let's not assume anything," Marvel says. "For all we know, you'll be the one walking out of there and I'll be dead on day one." He sighs and gets to his feet, glancing at the bedside clock. I follow his gaze and see, to my surprise, that it's nearly two in the morning.

"I think it'd be good if we both got some sleep tonight," my partner says as he reaches the door. "So, goodnight then, Glimmer." He gives me a faint smile and, running one hand through his hair, turns to go.

"Hey, Marvel!" I call after him. He turns back to face me. "_Never say goodbye_," I whisper.

His face settles into the same plain expression he's featured the last few days, and I see the light of determination glow in his eyes once more. Marvel nods once, firmly, a small but strong gesture.

"And you," he says. "Never say goodbye."

And with that, he slips out the door and it hisses shut behind him as I clamber back into bed, tugging the warm blankets back up around my midsection. Suddenly, I feel so tired, I could probably sleep for a week. Miraculously, I find my eyes drifting closed almost immediately.

Marvel's visit still resonates in my mind, helping to steer away all my doubts and fears from earlier in the evening. I can still feel them, crouched like shadows in the back of my mind, but I'm able to once again shove them away, locking them back into their faraway corner where they can't escape.

I think back over the past few hours, marveling at how my outlook has changed. Before, I was unsure, confused, not sure of who to trust. My ally seemed as likely to stab me in the back as protect me, even with our earlier promises made the night of the Opening Ceremonies, in place. Now, I can almost feel relief seeping like a drug through my veins. I have an ally in Marvel, I know that for sure, a friend in the harsh and hostile arena. And that's worth more than I can say.

Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, I hear the faint hiss of my door whooshing open once more. Through the haze of dreams that have just barely begun to overtake me, I register Cashmere's presence. She comes to sit on the end of my bed, her eyes calm and serene as I struggle to remain awake.

"He spoke to you, then?" she asks. I nod, resting my head against the fluffy down pillows cradling my neck. "Good. You'll need someone like him in the arena. You can watch each others' backs."

"I thought you didn't trust him?" I ask sleepily. Cashmere nods thoughtfully.

"I didn't. But he came and talked to me. And he reminded me what allies are supposed to be," she says in a faraway voice that I recognize as the one she uses when she's remembering her own Games.

She pulls the covers more tightly up around my neck and smoothes my hair. I watch as she worries her lower lip with her teeth, appearing hesitant for some reason. It's this small nervous gesture that reminds me of just what happened earlier this evening.

"Listen, Cashmere," I begin, unsure as to how she will react. "I'm sorry about earlier."

My mentor looks up at me with her mouth twisted up into a shadow of a smile; it's not a real smile, full of bitterness and a multitude of emotions I can't identify, but at least it's there. "It wasn't your fault, Glimmer," she says softly, looking down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. "I could tell you a half-truth and say I knew it was the only way to get you into that dress and on that stage, but then I'd be lying to you. The truth is, I just overreacted."

"Why, though?" I ask quietly, sensing an opening to everything she's left unsaid. Cashmere sighs softly.

"There's a lot of reasons. For one thing, I hate being back here, you know that." And I do. Every time she goes to the Capitol, which was about once a month when we were training together, she comes back quieter, fiercer, and it takes weeks for her to relax again.

"But it's worse this time, with the stress of the Games themselves. It brings it all back, you know? And I'm trying to keep it all together so I can focus on you, but obviously," she says with a bleak chuckle, "I don't always seem to succeed."

"Before, when you said…" Here I hesitate, unsure how exactly to put my feelings into words. I struggle in silence for a few seconds. "When you said-"

"I didn't mean a thing I said in the prep rooms this evening," Cashmere says firmly. "Don't even think it, Glimmer. I was angry and frustrated and stressed out and I just reacted. None of what I said was true, none of it." She looks up at me, her voice fervent. "When I said you'd never be able to win on your own, I was being petty and horrible, and you need to understand that none of it was the least bit true. You can do this, Glimmer, with or without me." My mentor leans forward to grip my hand firmly in her own.

"When you hear that gong tomorrow, I want you to remember that you have the ability to win these Games, I know you do. And you will. You will."

Warmth rushes through my veins as Cashmere squeezes my hand. I can't speak, but I squeeze back, communicating everything I can't say. Let's just say apologies from my mentor are as uncommon as… well, as they are from me. Like snow in District One. Rare and confusing and wonderful.

"Goodnight, Glimmer. And remember, I believe in you."

My mentor's final words are the last thing I hear echoing through my mind as everything fades to black and I drift off into the land of dreams, the arena the farthest thing from my mind.

**A/N**

**What'd you think? I know some of you were expecting the arena, but don't worry, I've got a killer (literally...) chapter next time, with plenty of bloodbath action. Remember to review!**

**-Iri**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**

**Here it is, the moment we've all been waiting for… the arena. I'm pretty excited for this chapter, and even more for the one after it. Hopefully you'll feel the same way…**

**Deschanel10, this one's for you… here's hoping one of your predictions comes true! :P**

**-Iri**

I'm woken the next morning by Irene, who quickly dresses me in plain white garb, obviously meant to be temporary, and rushes me to the rooftop of the Training Centre where I see a waiting hovercraft, ladder descended and waiting.

As I step forward and place my hand on the ladder, I'm frozen in place by a strange sort of electrical current; the ladder draws me quickly up into the belly of the machine, where a Capitol attendant injects me with what they call a tracker, and what I come to realize is the device that makes sure I'm always on the Gamemakers' map. I want to be irritated by the sharp pinch of pain, but I'm too far in my head to even notice, really. My face is a blank mask as I focus inward, visualizing my victory. _Calm. Focus._

We are guided to a small sitting area, where I munch on large amounts of fruit and some kind of dried meat, high protein snacks to fuel my efforts later on. The hovercraft ride only lasts about half an hour, and the windows black out halfway through. Irene explains that it means we're nearing the arena, and any preview on my part would be considered an unfair advantage.

To work off some of the excited energy still building in my limbs, I go and stand right next to the window and scratch idly at the glass with my fingernail, trying in vain to see through the darkened pane. But I can only see the vague outlines of shadows, birds swooping around the craft, before I give up and go to wait by the ladder.

It lowers and I grab hold as it drops me down into the Launch Room. The room is plain, almost overly simplistic by Capitol standards, though it's vaguely reminiscent of my own home. The smooth simplicity of the large-tiled floors and pale walls soothes me immensely. I sit down on the provided leather couch and try to relax again as Irene drops into the room and immediately begins bustling about, showing more energy than I've seen from her since the first day in the Remake Centre. I sit back and chug several bottles of water as I drop to the cool floor to stretch my tight muscles.

Within minutes, Irene herds me through the shower, dries my hair into its natural curly state, and helps me to dress in the provided clothing. The green tunic provides a shocking contrast against my tense face, making my skin appear creamy and smooth and bringing out the vibrant color of my eyes.

As I stare into the mirror hung above the loveseat, I think of Rivet, who is no doubt sitting in front of the television at home. I imagine he is trying to appear calm, maybe putting on a smooth face for my father, who -I would bet money on the fact- is most likely just sauntering out of bed, yawning in complete unconcern. I chuckle aloud as I envision his face when I'd threatened him back in the Justice Building, so long ago. Has it really only been a week?

Before I know it, there's a soft mechanical voice telling me that it's time to prepare for launch. Irene zips up my jacket, straightens the collar of my blouse, and wipes a smudge from beneath my mouth before stepping back and looking me critically up and down.

"Well, I suppose that's that, then," she says in her soft voice. "Although I don't know what's to be done about your token. How it could have been poisoned, I don't understand. Your mentor assured me it was an heirloom from your mother."

I struggle not to burst out laughing at the bemused expression on my stylist's face as I climb onto the raised platform. Cashmere _would_ have fed her such a lie.

"And I expect everyone knows about it by now. Francius Dupree- the District Four escort, you know- was in the room when the review board announced they were disallowing it, and we all know what sort of a gossip he is," she continues as I turn to face the ceiling, a grin spreading widely across my mouth. Cashmere's promise, that I would be infamous, has come true. As the glass drops down around me and I feel the platform begin to rise, I laugh aloud.

The darkness envelops me for a few seconds, and I have to squint against the bright light as I burst forth above ground. Almost immediately, I'm chilled by the strong, powerfully cold wind that blows directly in my face, whipping my hair back from my face and making it difficult to see. I catch only a quick glimpse of the Cornucopia, gleaming brilliant gold in the warm summer sunlight, before Claudius Templesmith's voice rings out, echoing across the treetops that surround me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

Immediately, every sense in my body is on high alert. My eyes are already roving across the wide expanse of flat ground in front of me, getting the lay of the land. The Cornucopia rests, maybe forty yards away from where I stand frozen on my metal plate, in the center of the circle of tributes. To my left, I can see the tiny blond boy from District Nine; to the right, an unremarkable young man who I believe might be from Six. No trouble there.

Directly across from me, on the opposite side of the circle, I can just barely make out Marvel, leaning forward on his metal plate, looking for all the world as if he's ready to fly forward and destroy everything in his path. Good. At least one of my allies has his head in the game.

Surely half the waiting minute has passed by now; I see others fidgeting on their plates, waiting for the gong to ring, to signify the deactivation of the mines, so they can flee for the piney woods that I see make up much of the surrounding area. To my extreme left, I see a lake glimmering through the trees, bordering a wide expanse of what appears to be tall grass, waving eerily in the breeze.

Ever muscle in my body is tight, fairly trembling with anticipation. My eyes lock onto the gleam of silver directly in front of my plate; I see a long, graceful sword and sheath perched within easy reach atop a pyramid of wooden crates. This sword, I know, is meant for me; no other tribute, with the exception of Cato, even expressed a meager amount of skill with such a weapon in training, and it's ridiculous to imagine the bulky man from Two lifting such a narrow and elegant blade.

Then, there it is. The gong! It rings out loud and clear, and I instinctively sprint forwards, arms pumping as I race towards the plethora of supplies ahead of me. Around me, I can hear the confused turmoil that comes with twenty-three others all trying to either flee, fight, or just get out of the way.

I'm the first to reach the Cornucopia, which leaves me in an excellent position to quickly snatch up my sword and spin to defend myself from the ten or so tributes I see also running for the supplies. A girl I recognize as the one from Ten, an eighteen-year-old with a determined look on her face, makes as if to dart past me and is just reaching out her hand to snag a small blue backpack when I lash out with my sword and slash her across the abdomen.

She screams and drops to the ground; already, a death gurgle pours from her throat. I swallow the bile that has suddenly gathered in my mouth and turn to face my next opponent, already crouched to avoid a blow.

It's a strange feeling, fighting for your life, and I realize that no matter how much training I've received, nothing could have prepared me for the out of body experience I'm having right now. I can see myself as if looking down from above; it's almost like watching a television program, I feel so removed from what's going on right now.

I can see myself, the tall, shapely blond girl, spinning and whirling like a dervish, wreaking absolute havoc. Her face is blank, an almost entirely emotionless slate save for her teeth, bared in a wordless snarl that is both beautiful and terrifying.

Even as I watch, she cuts and slashes her way through two more, the tiny girl from Three and a boy so completely ordinary I don't even recall ever seeing him before. As minutes pass and blood thickens the dust underfoot, the girl never hesitates, crossing blades momentarily with her own allies, as if testing the boundaries, and then whirling away to cut down a dark-eyed child trying to steal away with his life.

The fighting continues for nearly half an hour as the small group of allies slowly gathers, back-to-back, to fend off the last of the offenders. I see the huge man from Eleven take off for the tall, grassy fields in the distance, a huge pack slung over his shoulder. No one bothers to give pursuit; he can be easily dispatched later, when all the strongest fighters are focused on him rather than scattered across the plain with a half dozen targets still remaining.

The girl from Twelve similarly disappears, but into the woods, with one of Clove's valuable knives still embedded in her tiny pack of supplies. I find myself smirking at the vanishing back of the girl who managed an eleven from the Gamemakers; if she cannot stand and fight, she hardly deserves such acclaim. And I still look forward to ending her as soon as possible.

What seems like hours later but is probably less than one, I finally slow to a halt, bending over and bracing my hands on my knees for a few seconds. Air rushes in and out of my lungs with alarming speed, and I find myself feeling extremely grateful for Cashmere's plethora of stamina drills, without which I might be lying, either dead or utterly spent, in the dust at my feet.

Everything happens very quickly then; I only have time to hear my district partner's angered shout, see the flash of brilliant silver close to my ear, and then I am knocked to the ground by something heavy and very solid.

"What the-" I hiss, almost stifled by the large mass currently crushing my chest. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heavy object, which appears to take the form of Marvel, lunges forward off of me and I hear another enraged shout, along with a loud gasp and the clang of metal on metal. I force myself to my feet, ready to fight for my life, but I stop dead at the sight before me.

The boy from Four, Kai, lies on his back on the ground, arms outstretched, a large knife lying a few feet away from his left hand. But more astounding than this is the sight that truly makes me blink in surprise; Marvel stands over the dark-haired boy, one foot planted firmly on his windpipe, the tip of one of his many spears resting directly over Kai's heart.

Well. I can honestly say I wasn't expecting that.

And neither, it appears, were any of my other allies. I shift into a defensive position, readying myself for the attack I'm sure is to come, but as I glance around warily, I see that, contrary to my previous assumptions, no one seems truly inclined to attack me just this moment. In fact, quite the opposite. Cato has Marina firmly in his grasp, the edge of a knife held to her throat as she struggles in the crook of his massive arm. Clove has several knives already drawn in her right hand, poised and prepared to throw, but I'm not the one she's aiming at. It would appear that the pair from Four is in everyone's bad graces now.

"You traitorous bastard," Marvel hisses, still holding his spear to Kai's chest. "Did you really think we would all stand around while you tried to eliminate a member of this alliance, who, I might add, is worth far more than your worthless skin?" As if to accentuate his point, my district partner drives his foot harder into his prey's throat; Kai chokes and his arms scrabble helplessly on the ground, searching for a weapon. But it's useless, the knife is too far away.

"That was _extremely_ stupid," Marvel hisses. "Then again, I shouldn't expect anything more from an idiot like you, Kai. You think no one saw through your little allies act?"

"Please," Kai chokes out, his scratchy voice barely audible. "Please."

I swear, every sound in the clearing stops. There is only a shocked silence as we all take in his words.

"Please?" Marvel snarls. "We all knew you were stupid, Kai, but we didn't realize you were a coward, too." Marina struggles in Cato's grip, trying to reach her partner, but a blow to the stomach by the huge man stifles her attempts right away.

"Kill him," Clove calls, her tone a mixture of boredom and disgust. "He's worthless, anyway. We'll be better off without him." She turns to walk away, and her eyes meet mine. I'm sure my face reflects the shock I feel, and she stops for a split second before nodding to me and returning to her task of collecting every knife she can find from the Cornucopia with which to line her jacket.

"What do you think, Glimmer?" Marvel calls, still holding his boot to Kai's throat. I look over at him, feeling the rage well up inside of me. As I walk forward to stand by Marvel's side, the only thing I can think of is how close I just came to having Kai's knife in my back, and how the only reason I'm alive and walking right now is because of my district partner's actions. Much as I appreciate living a while longer, at least, the thought of being in debt to anyone, even my strongest ally, fills me with revulsion, and it is this which makes me respond so viciously. Debts must, after all, be repaid.

I stand over Kai with an expression I would guess is equivalent to my mentor's when yet another lewd comment reaches her ears, as I have so often witnessed during our evening walks through the back alleys of District One: coolly and completely superior.

"A valiant try, District Four," I say icily, "but an ill-advised one. I think we can safely say you just made your final mistake." His eyes widen and then narrow in hate as I speak, my lip curling upwards in the perfect picture of loathing. I turn to Marvel, who watches me with the bloodlust not yet entirely faded from his face.

"Kill him, would you? I'd do it myself, but I'd prefer not to soil my blade with the likes of him," I say with as much derision as I can muster, still shaking internally. Marvel nods once, eyes on mine, before I turn away and walk towards the lake to collect myself. As I focus my gaze on the crystalline water, I hear the sickening crunch of bone, the twist of a spear, a whimper, and then, silence.

I have to struggle not to empty the contents of my stomach in what is probably the only source of water for miles as Marvel ends the life of the pitiful excuse for a tribute from Four. I don't consider it an unjustified kill; rather, I'm viciously glad that he is dead, am savoring the taste of victory on my tongue even as I choke on the ashes that seem to have collected in the very back of my throat. But it is this very sense of joy in death that frightens me the most.

Back when I began my training, Cashmere explained to me in very explicit terms that I would have to kill in order to win the Games, and while I have never shied away from what I know to be the inevitable truth, neither do I enjoy the destruction of lives, being that life itself is something I have always considered most precious, ever since my childhood.

I once contracted a seemingly-deadly bout of the disease that takes hold of many in my district, a sort of coughing plague, in which the victim often expels the contents of their body without stopping until all they can choke up is blood. I have been told, by Rivet in particular, that the doctors had given me up as a lost cause, had told my father he'd better begin planning a funeral. But I fought back, and though it took months for me to regain my strength, I clawed my way back to life.

It is not only this experience that has given me such a fierce desire for life, but also my inheritance as a child of District One, where although violence is significantly more reduced than in, say, District Two, it's not uncommon to watch a Peacekeeper beat someone to death in the street for stealing a loaf of bread, or to see a child lying, belly distended with hunger, in an alley, the flies already gathered.

It is really the combination of all these things that has bred in me an aversion to needless violence; yes, I will kill, because it is what I must do to win the Games and achieve my freedom. But I will not, inwardly at least, take pleasure in the sadistic style of killing so commonly seen in the Games. I may be a Career, but I am not a monster.

I crouch in the lumpy, hard-packed dirt of the plain, close to the shores of the crystal-clear lake. My soft leather boots are already caked with dust and grime, but it isn't as if it matters now. I lean down and, holding back a wave of revulsion, use the torn jacket of the fallen girl from District Three to wipe the blood and filth from my sword. It's a beautiful Capitol-made weapon, slender, sharp, and absolutely lethal, and most certainly more expensive than anything I've ever used, but I curl my lip as the layer of mess caught in the delicate engravings down the blade refuses to be smoothed away. A reminder of the horror of the morning, and of all the carnage still to come.

I shove the sword point-first into my belt and stand up, not wanting to look at it anymore. Instead, I choose to make my way over to where Clove, Marina, Marvel, and Cato are already picking through the mounds of supplies that cascade from the mouth of the great golden horn. I step over several bodies, Kai's being one of them, which are still oozing blood into the thick dust, and join my allies.

As I turn back to the task at hand- namely, figuring out what I personally want or need from the heaping mound of supplies- I spot a glint of silver from the corner of my eye. A bow and large sheath of silvery-gray arrows rests atop a neat pile of sleeping bags. Not having noticed such a find before, I quickly climb atop a huge tent kit to reach the bags, pleased to see they are lined in silver insulating material, the same as my tribute jacket. Obviously, the Gamemakers have some cold weather planned.

"What've you got, Glimmer?" Clove calls from where she is currently yanking on of her many silver knives from the chest of a fallen tribute. In response, I toss her one of the bags, flinging a second, third, and fourth straight to the ground. There's an extra, most likely meant for Kai, but he's quite obviously dead, so there's no one left to use it. However, I suppose it could come in handy, so I toss it down as well.

Returning my attention to the silver bow and arrows, I chew my lip, deep in thought. The way they were placed at the top of a pyramid of supplies, so clearly visible, it's as if the Gamemakers intended them for someone specifically. Like a gift, ready and waiting for the one who will use them to collect their prize. But as far as I know, none of my allies have expressed any interest in having them, and I myself have no experience with archery. I can't even remember anyone spending time at the archery station during training.

Although, for all I know, they were meant for one of the dead tributes that still litter the ground around me. I try to envision the starting positions of every tribute on their plates, thinking that whoever the bow was intended for would most likely be positioned nearby, but I can't remember.

With a sigh, I lift the leather strap dangling over the edge of the pile and swing the sheath over my shoulder. Even if I can't use them, they might be handy to have, and it's better than just leaving them for someone else to help themselves to. Just then, I hear a shout and whip my head around to see Marina sprinting full speed for the woods, Marvel in pursuit. _What the…_

Cato gives a low curse through his teeth but stays in place, hand on the massive sword slung on his hip. Next to me, Clove's hazel eyes are bright with anticipation, trained on the spectacle before us. "Is she really stupid enough to try to run?" she murmurs to herself almost unconsciously. Her left hand twitches almost unnoticeably towards her jacket zipper. Not because she's cold. Because the jacket is lined with knives.

I fight the urge to go stop Marvel from killing another one of our allies, being that Kai is already lying dead on the ground by his hand. _Although now that I think about it, Marina might just be the exception. _

But to the great surprise of all three of us standing back at the horn, Marvel immediately stops at the edge of the trees and gesticulates wildly back at us. I can't see what he is looking at, but he's got a spear trained on something hidden in the shadows. With a shrug, I look at Clove and then job over to where my district partner waits, not bothering to stick around and see if my other allies are following. It would not be in their best interests to stab me in the back now.

As I draw nearer to the fringe of trees, Marvel calls to me. "Check this out," he says, faint amazement in his voice. I duck under a low hanging branch, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dark beneath the pines. To my amazement, I see Marina standing over the very-frightened boy from Twelve, a spear at his throat. I can see from ten feet away that he's wounded; a gash on his ankle allows a steady trickle of blood to fall freely onto the ground.

Behind me, I hear Cato's startled inhalation, and then Clove is darting past me to stand over the fallen boy. His eyes are wide and frightened as he remains sprawled in the dirt. _As they should be_, I think.

"So, Lover Boy returns," Clove says harshly, casually spinning a knife in her hand. "Tell me, did she break if off yet, or are you just tired of living?" She kneels next to him, studying his face with a considerable amount of rage present in her expression. I remember her reaction to his interview, just last night, and wonder if the two instances are related, because the anger she wears so plainly on her face is far beyond anything I'd have imagined.

The boy struggles to shift away from her, but stops abruptly when Clove flicks the tip of her knife into the crook of his neck, just above the Adam's apple.

"No, wait!" he pleads. "Don't kill me, please! I can help you!"

Marvel snorts from his position by the tree line. "You, help us? Trust me, your help is something we will never need. If we were all as pathetic as you, District Twelve might have more victors."

"Do us all a favor and shut up, District One," Cato growls in his low bass voice. "Now, do you want me to kill you here, or would you rather go watch the supplies before some weakling waltzes right up and decides to swipe them? That is, _if_ you don't think it's too much of a challenge. That little girl from Eleven looked pretty fierce. You might need backup."

His biting words take effect quickly, and Marvel bares his teeth angrily. I can see in his eyes that he'd like nothing more than to punch Cato in the eye right now, but Marvel's not stupid. Jabbing as the remark was, now is not the time to start a fight with District Two, and Cato has a point. The supplies will need to be watched; for all we know, some random could have already made off with a week's worth of food.

Still, Marvel shoots me an irritated look before jerking his spear from the ground where he planted it and, with a last glare at his opposition, turns and jogs back to the Cornucopia.

I stare after him, quickly realizing that I can't let Cato think he can walk all over District One. Marvel and I must remain a united front for as long as possible. For one thing, it's a hell of a lot easier to get sponsors when you have two surviving tributes from your district. Plus, anyone who allows their partner to get killed off and does nothing to stop it has hell waiting for them back home in the form of angry relatives.

I can feel Cato's gaze on me, waiting to see what I will do in response to his very public show of dominance. I turn to fix him with an icy glare.

"Don't get any ideas, District Two," I snarl, filling every word with pure malice. "The second this alliance ends, you'll be dead on the ground. District One will make sure of that. Watch your step from now on." I don't bother to wait for his response, though I can feel his usual impassive gaze boring into my back as I stride back to join Clove and Marina farther into the trees.

"If we're all done with our posing match," Clove calls without looking away from the blond boy's fear-white face, "Lover Boy here has something to say to us. I think it might be wise to listen." She gestures impatiently at the boy, who takes a deep breath before speaking up weakly.

"I- I know things. Things that can help y-you… What I said in the interview, it was all an act. Our mentor came up with the idea, to get sponsors. If you let m-me live, I can-" It's all he gets out before Clove cuts him off with renewed pressure from the knife at his throat.

"He says he can lead us to _her_," she says in a dark tone, looking first at me, and then over my head to meet the eyes of her solemn district partner. Cato is silent, and anyone can see he is deliberating, weighing the benefits of finding the Girl-On-Fire versus having another alpha male tribute to deal with.

Although the kid doesn't look like much, laying there in the dirt. He's well-built and appears strong, but he's crying silently now, and the sight shocks me. How does he expect to survive if all he can do is whimper like a small child?

"I say we try it," Marina cuts in, her voice loud in the silence. She looks around at our small circle of allies, her sea-blue eyes flashing. "I'd rather know where to hunt than stumble around blindly and risk an ambush. This way, at least we get to make her suffer." A cruel smile twists across her face at the prospect, and I want to slap her. I am accustomed to killing, but I want no part in needless torture.

The boy seems to find the idea repulsive as well; out of the corner of my eye, I see a look of horror and rage flicker across his face, and I wonder… He denies any bond between them, and yet he is terrified by the topic of her imminent death at the hands of this sadistic girl. I have an inkling, a sixth sense, if you will, that something isn't quite right here.

But I shove it aside as meaningless. The boy probably feels guilty about signing his girlfriend's death notice, and I don't blame him. It's a despicable thing to do, but these are the Hunger Games, and it's every man for himself. And, I tell myself, it isn't as if he's going to fight his way out of here, anyways. Surrounded by the best fighters in the Games, he has no chance.

All eyes are still on Cato, waiting for his decision, and I roll my eyes. Since when did we elect him king of the pack?

"I agree with Marina," I snap in a loud, clear voice, inwardly writhing at the idea of agreeing with anything said by anyone from District Four; however, appearances must be maintained, for now at least. "He is useful; let's take him back to the lake and deal with it later. We have a camp to set up." I slide my sword back into the sheath and push my way through the trees to leave the rest of my allies standing in the woods, irritated by the way everyone seems to look to Cato as the final authority in this alliance. _My _alliance.

When everyone finally returns to the plain, the limping coal boy in tow, Marvel is sitting with his back against the Cornucopia, sharpening a spearhead with a thick grating sound. He sees us coming and climbs lazily to his feet. "About time," he calls. "They already came and got the bodies." And sure enough, the dead tributes have been removed. All that remains are the bloody stains on the ground.

"How many?" Clove asks, dark hazel eyes scanning the stained ground.

"I counted ten, but there could be more, in the woods. I know I wounded at least one, and she's probably bled out by now. The girl from Six."

"So, eleven," I say. So many! It's a number well above average for the first day of the Games, but I guess they don't call it a bloodbath for nothing. Sure enough, I've barely completed my sentence when the cannons begin to sound.

_Boom._

_Boom._

_Boom._

Eleven in all. We stand in silence as the echoes vibrate around us. Echoes of lives. For a moment, I can almost feel their eyes on me, and I fight the urge to vomit, but the feeling passes as the final cannon shot fades away into the trees and my allies return to action.

The following hours pass quickly; Marvel is elected to stand guard over the boy from Twelve, whose name I now recall is Peeta (really, the ridiculous names they give children in other districts) while Cato, Clove, Marina and I finish sorting through the remaining supplies. There's certainly enough food to keep us all well-fed for a few weeks, minimum, which is encouraging. Panem has spent the last few years watching even the Careers starve to death, so obviously the Gamemakers are determined to keep things a bit more lively this time around. After all, you can't kill someone with any gusto on an empty stomach. _Really_.

I manage to fill a medium-sized pack with my own personal supplies, no mean feat considering the way Marina is doing her best to grab everything in sight. A few packs of dried meat, fruit, and, spectacularly, a few packets of precious energy drink mix. Stir it into water and drink it down and you have eight hours of energy, instantly. In the Games, when sleep can mean a knife in the back or a slit throat, this stuff is as good as gold. I try to be subtle about the way I tuck it into the bottom of my pack. No need to start a fight over it.

There's a prime medical kit, which I shove in my bag, along with a small set of knives, one of which I slip covertly into the top of my boot. All in all, a decent haul this year, which reassures me that we will not all be crawling about eating insects in a week. You laugh; it's happened before.

By the time we've got everything sorted and piled further into the golden horn to avoid theft, the sun is already sinking lower in the sky; I'd hazard a guess that it's late afternoon, maybe early evening when Marvel strikes a newfound flint to build a small campfire. We settle down to a quick dinner of dehydrated soup and dried meat strips pilfered from the bottom of a large survival pack. The fare is rich and hearty in my suddenly ravenous stomach and I eat quickly before taking some time to carefully finger-comb my hair, which bears a good deal of resemblance to a haystack. Ordinarily, I wouldn't be so concerned, but I have an image to maintain, for the Capitol audience if nothing else.

And then, it's time to hunt.

**A/N**

**What did you think? Sorry for the abrupt ending, but it was kind of necessary to break it off there. You'll see what I mean when I post the next chapter.**

**Remember to review!**

**-Iri**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**

**A new chapter at last! This one's a long one, and I can say I like this one a great deal. I hope you feel the same way… As a quick recap, we're now in the arena. Last chapter, we saw the bloodbath, Kai's attempt on Glimmer's life and his own demise at Marvel's hands, and then the discovery of an unlikely ally in the boy from District Twelve… ooohhh…**

**So, without further ado, here is chapter ten. Enjoy, and review, pelase!**

**-Iri**

Night has fallen in earnest by the time we stride into the forest, heavily armed and wearing the warmest gear the Gamemakers provided. Even so, I shiver through the extra layers; it's already freezing cold out, and it's only going to get colder. I pity the poor souls left without some form of cover… _or at least, I would if I were not trying to kill them_, I have to remind myself.

There's nothing to hear, only an oppressive silence and the sound of soft footsteps in the dirt as we creep only noiselessly through the dark forest. There's a good deal of moonlight visible through the trees, rendering the night vision glasses Clove and Cato are wearing pretty much useless. Sure enough, minutes into our trek, the pair from Two both seem to have tired of squinting through the grainy lenses and they are tucked away in backpacks before we continue onward.

We run silently for hours, our only companions the occasional scared rabbit and the hooting of owls hidden high in the treetops. No one speaks, but I can feel the building frustration among the group. The arena's bigger than anyone thought and we haven't seen a single other tribute since the bloodbath.

Then, I see Marvel, a few feet out ahead of the pack, suddenly fling up a hand and stop dead in his tracks. Like a pack of wolves, we all immediately pull up, and the tension ratchets up yet another notch. At first, I wonder what has caught his eye, but then I see it: the faint glow of a campfire burning low, as if its owner has fallen asleep. The source of the hopeful smoke I've been smelling faintly for miles now.

The cool breeze must have spread it far and wide, because it has taken us hours to find this small beacon in the night. It's a huge risk for any tribute, lighting a fire when they must know the Career pack is out and hunting. Whoever this unlucky tribute is, they're not very smart, which tells me it probably isn't anyone of particular consequence.

I catch a glimpse of Clove through my peripheral vision; every line in her thin, angular face seems drawn ever tighter as she is bleached to pure white by the moon. She leans forward, an inscrutable look on her face, and I wonder what exactly are this girl's motivations. She wasn't a volunteer, but she knows how to handle herself in the arena, that much is far too obvious.

_Enough,_ I scold myself. _The enigma that is Clove will have to wait. _Especially considering the way Marvel has raised his hand in warning. I tense, every muscle in my thin frame nearly shaking with adrenaline. Then, Marvel brings his hand down, and as one, the five remaining Careers leap forward into the tiny clearing ahead.

She screams when she sees us, the petite blond-haired girl. She's from Eight, I think, and she's maybe fourteen years old. As we advance, though, she whimpers like a much younger child, pleading for her life. "No, please, oh no, please, please!" she cries, tears visibly staining her pale cheeks. I was right about one thing; she's got no supplies, no cold weather gear to keep her warm, and has therefore been forced to light a fire in order to avoid freezing to death.

My stomach tightens. It's a horrible catch-22 sort of dilemma. Is it better to freeze to death or meet your end on the point of Marina's spear? For it is she who steps forward now.

"Well, well, what's this? Did you lose your way, little girl?" The dark-haired girl's eyes glitter maliciously as she hoists her spear up to her shoulder, adjusting her grip. She nonchalantly, even playfully makes a few small, flicking motions with her wrist, opening up several tiny gashes on the girl's torso.

"How awful that must be, to spend the last moments of your pathetic life not even knowing what's going on or where you are. Well, let me enlighten you. My name is Marina, and I'm so glad to meet you." Marina's lips twist upward in a cruel smile as she prods the trembling girl from Eight with the point of her spear, opening another shallow cut across her chest; the girl whimpers even louder, and I hear Clove sigh next to me. I myself find this very sight hard to stomach. This sadistic manner of killing, it's enough to make anyone sick.

"Enough, Marina," I snap harshly, stepping forward with one hand on the hilt of my sword. "Get it over with or give her to someone who can."

Marina whips her head around to glare at me with vicious eyes and opens her mouth to retort, but Cato cuts her off before she can speak.

"Did you not hear her, District Four? That's enough! Or do you want to go the same way as your idiotic partner?" The look on Cato's face is enough to frighten even the bravest of tributes into submission, and it has no less effect on Marina, who tries to cover her sudden uneasiness with a disgruntled huff and turns back to her victim, who is now trembling harder than ever.

"Sorry, then," Marina says in a sickeningly cheerful tone, "but it looks as if your time is up." And with that, she plunges the spear point directly into the girl's chest.

The girl lets out a terrible, agonized howl that peters off into a death gargle as Marina wrenches her weapon free with a sickening squelching sound and turns to the rest of us. "That's twelve down and eleven to go. Happy now?" she snarls. I have to shove my sword hand into my jacket pocket to keep from running her through right there, but I know even as I do so that to follow through on such a suddenly-desirable action would only lead to trouble for me. _This is the Hunger Games, Glimmer, and it's no time to suddenly acquire morals_, I snarl fiercely in my head.

"Fine," Cato says brusquely. "You- Lover Boy-" This is directed at Peeta, who until now has stood completely silent and off to the side, as if denying involvement. "Check her pack, see if there's anything useful inside." He nods to the small purple bag half-buried in pine needles. Peeta swallows and crosses the clearing to crouch next to me and unzip the girl's tiny bag. I watch as he dumps it into the dirt.

Out spills an empty water bottle, a half-eaten loaf of bread, now filthy, and a flint, no doubt the tool used to build the fire that was her doom. I also see a tiny flash of silver, what appears to be a small charm of some sort. I nudge it with the toe of my boot, curious. It's rounded, hollow, and looks like it might fit around the end of my pinky finger. The shape stirs a vague memory in my mind, and I have to search fruitlessly for a moment before I realize what it is. A thimble. It dawns on me that this is probably the girl's token.

"Well, that's not going to do us any good," Marina grumbles, leaning over to wipe clean her spear on the jacket of the still form. "Can we go now?"

"Oh, do us all a favor and shut up, Marina," Clove snaps, turning to her hulking district partner, who sheathes his sword and straightens up to his full height.

"All right then, that's that. Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," Cato says. I turn to look at him, surprised by his unexpectedly cavalier words, and am just in time to catch the small flash of emotion in his midnight blue eyes. Sadness. Exhaustion. And I suddenly find myself thinking that maybe the massive man from Two isn't quite as vicious as he appears.

As I turn to walk away with the rest of my allies, I stop, and look back at the girl lying crumpled and prone in the dirt. The soil around her body turns rapidly to mud with her blood, and her hair hangs tangled across her face, obscuring her features. I feel a sudden impulse to brush it back, so her family can at least see her face. She deserves that much.

Glancing back at my vanishing allies, I make a decision. I dart back to the girl's body and hastily smooth the messy strands away. Her skin is cold and clammy and I flinch away in revulsion, standing to go. Then, I notice the glint of silver near my boot. The thimble.

I quickly scoop up the tiny object and, stooping, tuck it in the dead girl's head before straightening up and ducking through the trees to find my allies, blending into the rear of the pack unnoticed, trying to forget my moment of weakness. _Weakness. It's true. You cannot allow yourself to become so distracted now, Glimmer. Not now._

We've only gone about a hundred feet farther into the forest when Clove, walking a few feet ahead of me with Cato at her side, calls for us to stop. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" she asks.

"I'd say yes," I reply, confused. "There's nothing to prevent them from going in right away." And there isn't. In every Hunger Games I've watched, the hovercraft picks up the body as soon as you vacate the immediate area, although Clove's right, the cannon hasn't sounded yet. The girl seemed dead when I went back, but I didn't think to check for a pulse. Marina did a good enough job butchering that I didn't even bother.

I voice what everyone is no doubt thinking. "Unless she isn't dead." _Ouch_. That would mean the girl is still lying out there with a gaping hole in her chest. I wince internally.

"She's dead. I stuck her myself," Marina growls, flicking back greasy black bangs.

"Then where's the cannon?" I challenge, spinning to face my most hated ally. After all, it's her fault the girl is probably suffering excruciatingly right now.

"Someone should go back," Cato asserts. "Make sure the job's done." His eyes, now completely devoid of all emotion I glimpsed earlier, sweep across me and land on Marina, who, were she a dog or small wolf, would most certainly have hackles raised right now.

"I said she's dead!" she hisses, one hand going to her spear. Cato, of course, responds in typical alpha male fashion, striding forward and drawing his sword. I think I'm about to witness the end of the hapless girl from Four, and am in fact rather hoping something of the like will occur, when a sharp voice cuts through the night.

"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

There's a moment of silence as we all turn to see the boy from Twelve, still clutching the single knife Clove deigned to let him carry when we first set out firmly in his white-knuckled fist. Without waiting for anyone to respond, he spins on his heel and heads back in the direction we just came from. I'm pretty sure we all stare after him for a minute, openmouthed. _Well, I definitely didn't expect that,_ I think wryly. District Twelve is just full of surprises today.

"Go on, then, Lover Boy," Cato calls after the vanishing blond head. "See for yourself." He waits until Peeta is definitely out of earshot and then turns back to face the rest of us, at which time Marina speaks up, although not above a whisper.

"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"

"Oh, let him tag along," Clove hisses. "What's the harm? Besides, he's handy with that knife." _And she would know_, I think_, being that she's never met a knife she didn't like_. But I feel like there's something more to Clove's willingness to keep Peeta around than just his knife skills. Again, I'm brought back to her strange fury on interview night, when he revealed his love for the Girl on Fire.

It is then that my mind makes the electric and fairly stunning connection. I glance surreptitiously over at the pair from Two and am unsurprised to see the way they stand so close together, his large frame always placed to defend hers, even unconscious though it may be. The tributes from District Two are more than just district partners, I suddenly know, and my guess is confirmed when Clove continues.

"Besides, he's our best chance of finding _her_," she hisses, voice ugly now. And now I'm sure that I've made the right assumption. We all know this little love story that District Twelve has cooked up is just another strategy, and I can see Clove being more than a little angered by it. Why should their relationship, a fictitious ploy for sponsorship, be allowed to thrive and even be celebrated, when she and her lover must keep their own a secret? For surely, only one of them will leave this arena alive.

I find myself feeling a small degree of sympathy for Clove and her doomed little love affair as Peeta returns, face whiter than ever, and we set off back to the lake again, the echo of the cannon bouncing off the trees behind us. Though I have never felt that way about any person, living or dead, I can at least feel sorry for her, the girl who did not volunteer but must regardless fight for her life, most likely killing her own lover in the process.

But I shunt the feelings away in the back of my head where hopefully they will stay, although I can feel the exhaustion in my veins, mixed with all the tangled emotions of the morning, threatening to spill out. _Come on, Glimmer, get it together. You can't afford to feel anything for these people. _Because really, I can't. If I am to get out of this arena alive, every single one of the other twenty three will have to die. And better them than me.

As the light begins to fully permeate the land and my allies settle down for a quick nap back at the lake, Marina on watch, I huddle my head deeper into the insulated sleeping bag, struggling to pull the tricky metal zipper closed from the inside. It catches in my hair, but I ignore the pain and yank the zipper shut. My head stings where the delicate strands are ripped out, but it's worth the pain to at last hide my face, and everything else, from watching eyes.

I've felt their stares all day, and while I thought I was used to constant scrutiny, I guess I'm not yet accustomed to being stared at by the entire nation. _And I never want to be._ The air inside the bag is hot, my body heat radiating from the silver-foil-lined interior, and I have to fight off the claustrophobia as it immediately becomes more difficult to breathe.

As I curl in on myself, I feel it. A single hot tear winds its way down my cheek, making my eyes sting and my face flame, though hidden, with shame and disgust. This is why I am hiding. _I cannot let them see me cry_. My allies, I hope, will assume I am taking shelter from the cold. And while it's true that the Gamemakers seem determined to freeze us all to death within the first twenty-four hours, my own reasons for huddling in my blankets like a child are far different.

My closed fist finds its way to my face and, just as I have done since infancy, I tuck it securely underneath my chin. I promised myself when I started training that I wouldn't do this anymore, but it's a comfort thing, and comfort is something I desperately need.

_I don't want this,_ I silently scream. _I don't want to die_. Shivers rack my body as more hot salt dries and tightens on my face. Faces flash in front of my eyes. The faces of the people, of the _children_ I've killed. I killed them in cold blood, for the simple reason that _I want to live._ Their lives didn't matter to me, and they shouldn't. I've spent years training for this. It's no surprise. I always knew I would have to kill, maim, destroy… Somewhere out there, families are grieving, cursing my name, wailing their pain to the skies because I stole the life from their children.

I've never had much of a family to grieve for me, besides Rivet and Cashmere, but this knowledge doesn't make it any easier. It makes it worse. Because I, the cold, unfeeling monster who has destroyed all their lives, have no way of feeling what they feel, no measure of empathy. And I don't deserve to feel for them; I don't deserve a family to love me, because this is what I am capable of.

The gruesome death of the girl from Eight and the revelation of Cato and Clove have shaken me, shaken me to the core, because for the first time, I must fully come to terms with the fact that these tributes are not just nameless creatures trying to kill me. They are people, with names and families and lives and hopes and dreams and futures.

I want to go home. I am tired of acting, tired of playing this deadly game. I want to live. I want to go home, more than anything.

But I can't.

What feels like hours but is really only maybe thirty or so minutes later, I reluctantly emerge from hiding, hoping against hope that the last few minutes of deep breathing and self-talk have served to wipe any betraying emotion from my face. Thankfully, as I brush my hair from my face and crouch a few feet from Clove at the opening of the Cornucopia, I receive no biting remarks, only a nod and a hunk of bread spread with soft cheese, meant for breakfast, tossed in my direction.

We have settled into a somewhat comfortable alliance, the two of us, or at least as comfortable as can be when we are both secretly waiting for the others' death. But we respect each other as warriors, women, and mutual enemies, and as I bite into the somewhat stale lump of bread, I decide that were we not trying to kill each other, we might even have been friends.

But it is useless to think on what can never be, I remind myself. Clove and her something-more-than-district-partner, Cato, _are_ my enemies, and I would do well to remember the fact. I can almost see Cashmere glaring at me through the unseen cameras, probably confused beyond words at my moment- or moments- of weakness.

My mentor has been with me since I was twelve years old, and she knows every expression on my face. Even if no one else has noticed the turmoil I feel inside, I know she has, being the only person on this planet who truly knows me for who and what I am. And I know my actions are so far out of character for me that she will not fail to wonder what on earth is running through my mind.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a small silver parachute drifts from the sky to land quietly on the night-cold metal horn above me. Clove, Cato, and Marvel look sharply at me as I climb to retrieve the package. Gifts are supposed to be for everyone to share, this being an alliance, but somehow I know that Cashmere means this one for me alone.

Inside the wrapping, I find a pair of soft mesh gloves, black in color and perfectly suited to my hands. They are scarred and worn, the fingertips cut off, and I smile as I realize they are the gloves I wore at home for years, training in the private gardens of my father's home. Cashmere is sending me a message. I think back to those days in the gardens, and I know exactly what she's trying to say.

_It is a blisteringly warm summer day, the sky a cloudless blue, the bushes rustling with just the faintest breeze. I am thirteen years old, just beginning to come into my own, my body only barely beginning to develop, my hair pulled into a ratty knot behind my ears, my still-soft and callous-free hands chafed raw and cracked, bleeding._

_I am sparring (rather badly, it must be said) with Cashmere, who looks as coldly beautiful as ever, her blade flashing in the sunlight. She moves with near-blinding speed to send my own weapon clattering to the decorative tiles at my feet. I curl my lip and kick aside the slender steel instrument in frustration, immediately feeling ridiculous for throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old. I wipe my painfully raw and bloody hands on my tunic as Cashmere's fierce scowl turns even darker._

"_Pick up your sword, Glimmer," she warns in a dangerous voice. "Our match is not finished." I glare at her, arms crossed and fists agonizingly clenched. I toss my braid back and stare her down, steely green against icy blue. We are mirror images of each other, two halves of the same whole. Except for our eyes._

"_No," I growl ridiculously. "I am done." I turn to walk away, intending to sulk in my room until tomorrow, or at least until my palms have sufficiently healed so that I can grasp my sword without having to hold back tears, but I am stopped by the feel of cold steel and an arm around my throat. Cashmere's dagger cuts into my skin, sending unconscious waves of adrenaline rushing through my veins. Her mouth is at my ear, warning me that I've gone too far._

"_Never turn your back on the enemy," she hisses, releasing me. I spin to face her and she presses the point of her sword, the hilt still firmly grasped in her other hand, to my collarbone. "How do you expect to win the Games if you get a blade in your back the first day? Pick up your sword and continue." She steps back expectantly, dropping into a fighting stance._

_What I do next, however, is something neither of us expects. All of a sudden, it feels like every emotion in my body floods through me at once. I tremble feebly, reach for my sword, and then sink to the floor and collapse against a potted tree, crying floods of tears. For a few moments, I expect my new mentor to run me through right there. In District One, Cashmere has a terrifying reputation for intolerance and brutality that has never failed to come through in the past, and I have the scars, scrapes, and bruises to prove it. Though she's never really seriously injured me before, there's a first time for everything._

_But surprisingly enough, I hear the sound of steel on leather as she slides her sword back into the sheath and comes to sit down next to me on the polished tiles. Through the haze of my tears, I regard her, dumbfounded, still expecting a knife in the ribs at the very least. Instead, I get a soft hand in my hair, smoothing the loose strands back from my face. This unexpected gesture of kindness only serves to confuse me further, and I begin to sob with renewed vigor. _

_Everything seems wrong; I can hardly fight my way out of a paper bag, let alone stand up to a fellow tribute. Cashmere is right; I will never survive the Games, and I will forever be a failure in my father's eyes. Too many thoughts fill my aching head, and I just sit and cry, and cry, and cry._

_Eventually, my tears slow, and I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand, the palms being too chewed up to touch. I am vaguely surprised to see Cashmere still sitting next to me with a patient expression and her hand rubbing soothing circles in between my shoulders. Suddenly disgusted with myself, my weakness, I swallow and turn to her._

"_I'm sorry, Cashmere. I… don't know what came over me. I will return to training immediately." I go to stand, mentally struggling to shove all my emotions away as I prepare to fight again, but I am stopped by a hand on my wrist._

"_Sit," Cashmere directs me. She pats the space next to her calmly. I hesitate before sitting back down, crossing my legs cautiously. She takes a deep breath before closing her eyes and opening them again to stare at me with gentle blue eyes. Again, I try to apologize._

"_Really, I'm so sorry. I'll work harder-" She cuts me off with a shake of her head._

"_No, Glimmer, just listen please." I shut my mouth obediently as she tucks a chunk of loose blond curl behind my ear before opening her mouth._

"_I know you're feeling… overwhelmed," she states, her eyes soft and understanding. "I've been there. I've been you, actually," she laughs softly, a sound I am rarely privileged enough to hear, but this laugh has a strangely bitter edge to it. "I know how hard you work, how much you have at stake here. So I want you to just relax, and I want to hear what you have to say before we go any further." I am taken aback by her words. Who knew Cashmere had a soft side? But she is looking at me with such compassion, I can't help but release the torrent of emotion that has been steadily building for the past year, both during my training and during those times when I don't see my mentor for days at a time. It's unstoppable._

"_I- I just feel… untrained. Weak. Like you said, I'll never make it in the Games. I can't even hold onto my sword, let alone win a match!" My voice is raised, but I don't notice. I gesticulate wildly, my hands flying in the air. "And I feel so awkward and useless… and my father won't even look at me half the time because I'm not good enough for him! And I'll never, never be good enough. You know him; I'm only a disappointment, a failure." I'm practically shouting but I don't care. _

"_And I need to be better than this! I need to be the best! And I can't do it, Cashmere, I can't! Someday, everyone will be watching me and I'll just croak. I can't master my footwork, I can barely manage to stay upright, and," I cry almost hysterically, "I can't even pick up a sword without practically falling over because I've got blisters all over my hands!" _

_By the time my tirade is finished, I am screaming at the top of my lungs, my throat hurts, and I'm breathing like I've just run a marathon. My chest heaves and I feel absolutely ridiculous… but, as I watch Cashmere through my peripheral vision, I realize that my heart feels, if at all possible, a good deal lighter. I turn to look at her with surprised eyes._

_Seeing my expression, she chuckles, smirking. "Helps to get it all out, doesn't it?"_

"_Surprisingly, yes," I reply, still trying to figure out where all these… emotions… are coming from. Somehow, I've managed to vocalize things I didn't even really know I was feeling._

"_Every once in a while, it helps to just vent. I know, I've done it. And I also know I've been pushing you too hard lately," Cashmere says in her usual straightforward manner. "It isn't fair for me to put so much pressure on you, and I'm sorry for that." She twists to face me directly, her face serious. "But you need to realize that you aren't weak, Glimmer." She gives an odd little half-laugh. "In fact, you're the best I've mentored."_

_I'm taken aback by this; Cashmere is a legend in District One, and the rest of Panem too, for that matter. To hear this from her is… unbelievable. Even if she's only had one other before me. I bask in the feeling for a moment before returning to reality._

"_But you said-" I try, wrinkling my forehead. She shakes her head._

"_No, I know what I said, Glimmer, but listen to me, please. I'm not joking when I say that you're one of the best I've seen. You may be a little rough around the edges, but that's something only time can smooth out. We've only been working together for a year; these things take a while." She glances up at the shadow of a jay swooping gaily overhead, then back to me. "And if your father stops to think about it, he'll realize it, too."_

"_But he doesn't!" I cry, feeling like a child. "He never sees anything good in me, never! I'm just a girl! A useless girl. He wanted a boy, and he got me instead. What am I supposed to do with that?" Cashmere leans her head back against the trunk of the tree and eyes me solemnly._

"_Then you will have to prove him wrong," she says. "Like I did."_

"_You?" I ask curiously._

"_Yes, me," she smiles. "I wasn't always this astoundingly incredible, you know." She winks and I snort disgustingly. "I didn't win the Games solely on my good looks, Glimmer, and neither will you. I had to work to get there, and that's all you can do right now. Forget what people think of you; you are what matters, not them. I don't see them volunteering for the arena. You can do this, Glimmer, you just have to believe in yourself. You haven't improved because, deep down inside, you don't want to." When I open my mouth to argue indignantly, she silences me with a signature death glare._

"_No, don't say anything. You know it's true. You've spent this entire year we've been working together telling yourself you aren't good enough, and you need to stop. You are good enough. Now prove it." In one swift movement, Cashmere rises to her feet and holds out a hand._

"_Let's finish the match." I take the offered hand without hesitation, and though I'm exhausted and drenched in sweat by the time we finish, I'm smiling. And when I go up to my room after dinner that night, I find a pair of worn, fingerless black gloves on my pillow, along with a note:_

_**Glimmer,**_

_**These were mine when I was training for the Games. They've served me well, and now, I'm passing them on to you. One beautiful girl to another. Besides, you said so yourself; you can't fight with blisters all over your hands.**_

_**-Cashmere**_

I never stopped wearing them, and four years later, I took them off for the last time the morning of the Reaping. Now, they've been returned to me, my mentor's little reminder that she believes in me, at a time when I need it more than anything. I don't know what strings she's pulled to get them to me, how many rules she's broken, but I don't care. These gloves are mine, a representation of the bond Cashmere and I share.

I jerk back to harsh, cold reality and look up as Cato clears his throat menacingly. "Got something you want to share, District One?" he asks with a searching look on his face.

"No, actually, these belong to me," I reply, looking him dead in the eye. It's a staring contest, with neither of us willing to give way. Burning blue-black. Icy crystal-green. It's a battle of wills, and I know I won't be the first to admit defeat. This is my gift, and I won't give it up, nor will I allow myself to be made a weakling of. I belong in these Games as much as the huge man from District Two, and it's time I showed it.

Finally, Clove snorts and puts a hand on Cato's massive chest.

"Leave it, Cato. It's not as if they'd fit anyone else, anyway." And she's right; her own hands are far too tiny, and neither Marvel nor Cato could ever fit theirs inside. Marina is still over babysitting the District Twelve boy near the lake, and no one thinks to offer them to her, anyways.

Clove glances up at the sky, at the parachute in my hands, and then back at my face with a look that is both warning and respectful. She doesn't know the meaning of the gloves, but she understands they are meant for me, and so she leaves me alone.

I rise to my feet, slipping my hands inside, and look up at the sky, glowing brilliantly pink but still faintly studded with stars, the final remnants of a night quickly slipping away. "Thanks, Cashmere," I whisper. "Thanks for everything." She'll know what I mean.

**A/N**

**What did you think? I know that, personally, this is one of my favorite chapters in the whole story… which may actually be because it's the one I wrote first. Before I ever decided to write an entire story, NSG came about as a oneshot. The bit where Glimmer is crying in her sleeping bag, of all things, was the basis for this story. On that note, I hope you all enjoyed. Please review, and let me know what you thought!**

**-Iri**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**

**Welcome back! On to chapter eleven, and this is where things start to go downhill, I'm afraid… only this chapter and then our story comes to its inevitable end.**

**On that note, I just wanted to say a quick thanks to all you guys who reviewed; it really made my day. Hope you enjoy this!**

**-Iri**

The next two days bring little in the way of exciting television, a fact that makes me uneasy. With the exception of the girl from Eight, there's been not a single death since the bloodbath on day one, which means the Capitol audience will be getting bored. And that spells danger for us all, because it's at times like this the Gamemakers start wreaking havoc with the system.

We've spent the last day and a half back at base camp near the lake, mostly talking strategy- or rather, arguing over strategy. Marina, you see, is all for hunting twenty-four hours a day, as long as it keeps her off guard duty, a task that really entails much less since the acquisition of our newest ally, the small boy from District Three. His name is Grayson, and he's just as personality-missing and dull as his name suggests.

But he does offer one thing of value, or we wouldn't have kept him around: Grayson, the intrepid fifteen-year-old and technological genius, has managed to reactivate the mines that surrounded the tribute plates before the Games began, a feat I'm sure has shocked the Gamemakers into a rather stupefied state, which may actually be the reason they haven't yet tried to liven things up. Even so, I'm still going stir crazy back at camp by the time we hit early afternoon of day three.

Finally, _finally_, we set off into the woods, Cato, Clove, Marvel, Marina and I, with Peeta and Grayson in tow as our rather reluctant tagalongs. It's already boiling hot outside, being past noon, and I'm sure this is yet another ploy to push us all- meaning the remaining twelve tributes- closer together, seeing as the crystal clear lake is the only source of water I've yet to see.

But I'm armed with several different water bottles all loaded into my heavy pack, and while I'd prefer not to carry so much weight, in case I need to make a quick escape for some reason or other, at least this way I'll be prepared for the worst, unlike the rest of my allies, who all seem content carrying small packages of dried fruit and meat and single bottles of water, as if the supplies cannot possibly be jeopardized.

I mean, sure, they're mined and all, but did no one think of the fact that if someone steps into that circle of explosives, they're going to blow our supplies straight to kingdom come along with whatever poor sap of a tribute was stupid enough to encroach on Career territory in the first place? Yes, Grayson assured us all that the landmines were rigged to only blow one at a time, but frankly, you don't get anywhere in the Games trusting in anyone but yourself.

I did not, of course, bother to inform anyone else of my opinion on the matter. The sooner they're all out of my way, the better. I'm actually half-hoping the supplies do get blow sky high, because I'm pretty sure it won't be all that hard to slip away in the aftermath of the destruction, and I've already got everything I want from the Cornucopia. No need to cry when those mines detonate. I'll be on my own then, just the way I like it.

For a moment, I feel a twinge of guilt, remembering Marvel, but I push it away. Allies or not, there can only be one winner. Our earlier agreement is still in place, meaning that, unless it comes down to the two of us, I'll not be stabbing him in the back anytime soon, and hopefully, his spear will stay clear of me as well. That being said, there's nothing else to keep me here when I see an opportunity.

It's getting late, and night has already fallen when I call the others to a halt. "It's been hours," I say wearily, my nose icy with cold, "and we haven't seen a single other tribute. Let's call it a night."

"Are you kidding?" Marina scoffs. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a lay-about, District One. Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of the local whore, or something similar, but I guess you can call it what you like. Feel free to head back to camp if you're in need of a nap."

"I only suggested it because if we haven't found someone in a full day of hunting, I think it's pretty well clear that the Gamemakers don't want us to find them just yet, or they'd have driven us together by now," I say quietly. "And to be quite honest, Marina, I'd rather be the town slut than the village idiot. At least then I'd be good for something."

Marvel bursts out laughing, Clove snorts behind her hand, and even usually-stoic Cato cracks a rare grin, showing off a flash of very white teeth before returning to his selfsame impassivity. I myself flash Marina a wide smile and wink before hoisting my heavy pack back onto my shoulders and turning in the direction I know the lake to be. "You can all come if you like," I say. "I don't see there's anything to be gained in wasting time and energy freezing to death out here. We can always pick this up in the morning."

"Hold up, District One," Clove calls after me. "Not planning on heading off alone so soon, are you?" Her eyebrows are raised in unsurprised question, and I feel my own rise as well when her words register.

"I wouldn't dare," I say with a playful laugh and smirk towards my ally, the girl who has actually become something of a friend to me. Clove grins back, her usual wicked smile.

"Didn't think so," she says. "Head back to camp, then, and take this one with you." She nudges Peeta in the back with the hilt of her knife. He stumbles wearily forward. "He looks like he could use some sleep."

"Got it," I nod, shifting the heavy straps of my backpack on my shoulders. "We'll meet you back at the lake, then."

Cato nods, eyes flashing. "Agreed. I'd like to spend a bit more time combing the area. In case we missed something while District Four was yammering."

Marina hisses under her breath and I see her knuckles whiten on the shaft of her spear, but she wisely chooses silence over retaliation.

"Good call, bottomfeeder," I jibe cheerfully, flashing her a cheeky wink. "Here's hoping we _don't_ meet again." I am gratified to hear the girl from Four snarl softly once more, but I know she won't try anything. Not here, not now. I turn to Peeta, who still stands rather unobtrusively off to the side, looking for all the world like he hasn't slept since the Games began three days ago.

"Come on then, Lover Boy," I jerk my head at him. "It's a long walk back to the lake." The boy jerks his head up to stare at me dully before trudging off through the trees. I turn to walk after him.

"Wait, Glimmer," Marvel calls after me. I turn back to see him trotting towards me, spear in hand. Unlike the boy from Twelve, he's still got plenty of energy to make his way quickly over the rough terrain, a fact I'm grateful for as Clove steps forward, a hand reaching towards her belt.

"Hold up, Wonder," she says calmly. "You're not just going to walk away like that, especially not with something so valuable." She nods in Peeta's direction. "He's our best bet of getting to _her_, and you're a fool to think we'd let you just walk off with him, District One."

I stare back at my diminutive but still ferocious ally, noting in the back of my mind her very easy use of 'we' to describe herself and her district partner. "Fine then, the boy stays."

"Not a chance," Cato says, shaking his head and stepping forward. "If you think you're both going to just walk away from this alliance without a problem, you're obviously not as smart as you look, and then I'd have to go so far as to say Marina over here might have competition in the stupidity department."

I glance over at Marvel, who looks back at me with wide brown eyes, his entire body riddled with tension, and then back at the pair from Two, who now stand side by side, a perfect match. And I know this is not the time or place for this fight. Not where they'll have the advantage on this uneven terrain, while Marvel and I have been trained in a district with nothing but flat, dry land stretching for miles. And not now, when, while I've still got energy left in reserve, we're both tired and less alert than I'd like.

"Then make the split fair. Marvel stays and one of you comes with me," I say neutrally, trying to assess the situation, but I know I have them here. If I'm right about them, the pair from Two with the strange connection they refuse to acknowledge, they won't want to be split up.

Sure enough, I see Cato's eyes flicker ever so briefly over his partner and then back to me, while Clove simply stares into my eyes, unmoving. I know she's thinking it through. Weighing the possibilities. Running through the chances, trying to predict my actions.

Then Cato straightens up to his full height and I know I've won. But the fact gives me no comfort as Clove's eyes narrow and her lover's flash dangerously across my face and that of my district partner. They do not like this loss, but their hands are tied. Neither will leave the other, a fact I had bet on to call their bluff, and yet, they are not pleased that I have ousted them so publicly, where the cameras can pick it up. No doubt a team of analysts back in the Capitol is already trying to dissect the motivations of the pair from Two. _Hopefully, they'll come up with the right answer. _Not that I'd want to sell them out, in any other circumstances, but hey, this is the Hunger Games. If they don't want their secret little tryst out in the open, then that's good enough for me.

"Very well, then," Clove says, her voice as calm and collected as before. "It looks like no one will be sleeping just yet. Sorry, Glimmer. But you could always just mix up a bit of that energy drink you took from the Cornucopia."

"You miss nothing, do you?" I reply evenly.

"It's my job to catch everything," she responds lightly. I nod, conceding the point, but I don't take my eyes off her as I reach into my pack to pull out a bottle of the precious drink. I see Marina's face contort angrily in my peripheral vision as I gulp down half the bottle before wordlessly handing it to Marvel. When he's drained every last drop, I replace the bottle in my now-lighter pack.

"Shall we?" I ask.

Cato is the one to respond this time. "After you, District One."

And so it is that, hours later, the cameras find us still roaming through the thick forest. We're closer to the lake than before, it's true, but still hours away, and I know that even Cato and Clove, the two veritable machines, are beginning to tire. Marina leans to rest against the trunk of a wide tree, trying to yawn inconspicuously under the pretense of re-tying her bootlaces. The pretending is useless, however, as the rest of us soon follow suit, leaning against trees or sitting down on the many formations of cool gray rocks.

I don't have to voice what I'm thinking; I'm sure the rest of my alliance knows it as well. Its now been almost forty hours since the last death, and though the potential break-up of the Career alliance might have whetted the appetites of the Capitol audience for a short while, there's no way the drought of violence is being well-received. It's only a matter of time before the Gamemakers intervene, and now we're all tired and weakened by the hours of fruitless hunting.

I almost open my mouth to speak my thoughts- hang what the others will think- but I stop, cocking my head carefully. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Marvel asks, eyes drooping lightly. I smack his shoulder.

"Listen!" I snap. Cato gets to his feet, eyes roaming over the surrounding forest with the keen gaze of a wolf.

"You hear it?" I ask impatiently.

He nods slowly, still turning in a circle. "I do."

"Hear what?" Marina snaps.

"That hissing sound!" I snap back at her. As I speak, the noise grows louder, and I see Clove's and Marvel's eyes both widen. "I don't like this," I say under my breath. "I don't know what that it, but knowing the Gamemakers, it could be anything. Mutts, gas, acid rain, anything."

"How about fire?"

I whirl around to see Peeta, pale-faced and sweating, his hand on the lone knife at his waist. "What did you say?" I demand.

But he doesn't have to respond, because at that moment, Marina screams at the top of her lungs and bolts past me, followed by Grayson, and then Cato tugging Clove by the arm. "What?" I look around, confused and disoriented. Then, I see it.

A wall of fire descends upon us, engulfing trees and crackling as it moves. And we're right in its path.

"Run!" I shriek, turning to see Marvel's face as his eyes widen in horror. And then we're both sprinting full-tilt through the woods, and the smoke is billowing around us in great clouds. It stings my eyes, and I can't see more than a few feet in front of me. It takes all my concentration to keep dodging trees and leaping over roots and fallen branches.

Marvel is a few feet ahead of me, and he doesn't look back as he crashes gracelessly through the thick woods. I am right on his tail, moving just as clumsily, thinking little of how ridiculous I look, racing only for escape. The air is growing hotter, and I know the fire is gaining ground. I can't breathe, I'm choking on the smoke as it swirls around me. Heavy, rasping coughs threaten to shatter my chest and I fight back the urge to vomit, or faint, or simply stop running. My muscles are burning.

But there is no way I'm going to die, not now. The thought of Rivet, no doubt watching me on the television at home right now, of Cashmere, who I can envision sitting on the edge of her seat, gripping the hand of whoever is unlucky enough to be nearby with all the strength in her body, this thought, it fuels me and I leap forward, keeping stride with my district partner. We fly through the forest, a pair of hacking, wheezing bodies, all identifying characteristics obscured by the rising smoke.

I scream in pain as a burning branch falls with a crack to hit my forearm, but there's no time to stop and nurse the wound, not with the hissing, snarling tongues of fire now snapping at our heels. Marvel slaps away tiny sparks that land on his shirt while running. I yank my jacket hood over my head, only now remembering that my long hair hangs freely behind me, just waiting for the tiniest spark to ignite it.

But all this, and the flames still gain on us. I am beginning to despair as, suddenly, a tree crashes to the ground in front of me, cutting me off from Marvel, who skids to a halt, his eyes locking frantically with mine as I glance around, looking for a way out, any way out. But everywhere I look, there is fire, leaping towards me.

Tears prick my eyes as I search fruitlessly for an escape. _No! It can't end here, it can't! _The smoke chokes my lungs and I feel my skin begin to blister with the overwhelming heat. I look back at Marvel to see the stricken expression on his face. But there's clear air beyond him, and I can see it in his face.

There's no way out for me, and it would be safer for him to just run away now. I'm beginning to scream now, spinning around uselessly, looking for the exit that will not appear, as the ring of flames closes in around me. _This is it. This is how I'm going to die._ I close my eyes, feeling rebellious tears streak down my face as my knees threaten to give way.

Then, I'm jerked to the side, and I feel the lick of heat across my upper back. My eyelids snap open as I fly through the air, landing in a heap on miraculously cool dirt. Marvel lands with a thud beside me.

"Roll, Glimmer, roll!" he shouts in my ear, slapping me across the back and shoulders, flinging me onto my side. I catch a glimpse of the huge log we've just leaped over as it is engulfed. Then, he rolls me over again, is tugging me to my feet, half-dragging me forward.

"What- how-" I choke, wheezing as I stagger forward before finding my stride once more. He looks over at me as we sprint through the trees, away from the blaze.

"You really think I'd be able to go home if I left you there?" he asks with a derisive snort. "Your brother would have killed me, not to mention the fact that I wouldn't even make it to my final interview. Your mentor would have seen to that. She'd probably send Clove the knife to finish me off with if she had to."

I start to laugh hysterically at this- mostly because it's entirely true- but end up coughing violently as we break through the haze of smoke into a relatively smoke-free clearing, where I see the rest of our allies lying or crouching in various states of disarray and injury.

Cato pounds Clove on the back as she hacks violently before vomiting into the bushes; his own face is smeared with soot and I see a large burn across his upper arm where his shirt has been scorched away. Peeta, similarly, wheezes as he leans against a tree, while Marina clutches a possibly broken wrist and tries to avoid touching a raw and charred looking cheekbone.

At first, I think the boy from Three is gone, but then I see him lying on the ground, puking his guts out. I myself stagger forwards and plow into the dirt knees-first, struggling to unzip my backpack to get to the water I know is inside. Marvel bends over, hands on his things, to cough hoarsely before straightening up and tossing back an entire bottle of his precious water.

I think we all lay there for several minutes, maybe an hour or two, before Clove finally sits up and wipes her mouth with the hem of her filthy shirt. "I think it's time we take a gander about."

Marina wheezes as she stumbles upright, her wrist now immobilized within a thick layer of grimy cloth bandaging. "What are you talking about? You do realize the rest of us can barely breathe?"

"Think, District Four," I say weakly, too frustrated to even attempt a malicious jab. "That fire wasn't natural. It was a Gamemaker trick, and you know they're trying to drive us all together." I roll to my feet, shaking leaves from my hair.

"She's right," Cato says. "We've been here for over an hour; we're already losing opportunities. Who knows how many others are nearby?" Daylight is creeping over the treetops as the smoke fades away with the night, and the light brings all our injuries into higher relief.

"Besides, even if we don't find anyone else just yet, these burns are going to need cleaning," Clove rasps. "There's medicine in the Cornucopia. If we start heading that way, we'll probably run across someone regardless."

Marina can't argue with that logic; the pain is clear as day on her face. She shakily hefts her spear once more before lifting her pack over one shoulder. The other hand she holds carefully close to her body. I consider, for a moment, finishing her off where she stands, but at this point, it's not even worth the energy. She won't last long anyways, not with a broken wrist and that burn laying half her cheek bare. Infection will set in sooner or later. The tall girl from Four is dead walking.

We set out a few minutes later, when we've all recovered and had a bit to drink, and it's slow going at first. The half bottle of energy drink I consumed a few short hours ago is now a distant memory. My stomach growls angrily and I ignore it as I duck under low-hanging branches, keeping my sword out and at the ready. If the Gamemakers wanted us here, that means other tributes are nearby, and while I'm not particularly afraid of most of them, the thought of the huge man from Eleven bursting from the brush keeps me alert.

It's not him we find all these hours later, though. I'm out ahead this time, and I'm just about to continue walking when I see it: a flash of brilliant orange through the trees. I gesture for my allies to stop, and they do, Clove silently joining me at the front to peer through the underbrush. When I point out my find, her eyes narrow and flash with recognition.

The dark-haired girl from the coal mining district reclines in a shallow pool. Even from here, I can tell the fire has taken its toll; half her pant leg is cut away, and I can see the brilliant red of the scorched skin underneath. She's drowsing now, her eyelids fluttering every now and then as the faint breeze whistles through the trees. But she's not alert, and I can't see any weapons. No threat, no particular prowess. No fearsome tribute worthy of an eleven. Just a girl. A girl lying defenseless in a pond.

A perfect opportunity.

**A/N**

**Dun dun dun!**

**A little bit of a cliffhanger for you, although I suppose we all know what's going to happen next. Still, don't miss the next chapter- I promise to make it action-packed and really freaking awesome. Just remember to review please!**

**-Iri**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N**

**Hey guys, sorry I haven't updated… I know I usually update on Saturday or about, but I've been struggling with this horrible bout of walking pneumonia the last two weeks, and ended up in the hospital for a few days. I hope to post the final chapter of Never Say Goodbye in the next few days (possibly later today if I can), and then I will hopefully update again Saturday for the epilogue!**

**Thanks!**

**-Iri**


End file.
